


Embarking

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Adorable Sherlock Holmes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, CCTV, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Cutting, Deductions, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drunk Sherlock, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Homosexuality, Investigations, Original Character(s), Other, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Science Experiments, Self-Harm, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Brat, Sickfic, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Story: Silver Blaze, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13282467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “I will love you forever or until someone better comes along or I possibly strangle you.”John Watson had no idea what a cup of coffee with an old friend would lead to.This occurs after “A Study in Pink” and during and after “The Blind Banker”.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Ariane DeVere, for the amazing episode transcripts.

Chapter 1

The Stare. John Watson, doctor and former army captain, had never actually experienced someone “staring daggers” at him and thought it was just a fanciful phrase. And then he had been introduced to Sherlock Holmes—and the following forty-eight hours were a bit of a blur, but that did stand out.  
  
Really? This uptight, frighteningly intelligent, (selectively) perceptive, _uncanny_ man was a junkie? No. The DI had to be joking, right? No—after forty-eight hours of corpses in empty buildings, a foot race with a taxi, and that damned pill that he almost… when he thought about it, the drugs bust was no joke. And should he be moving in with him if that was the case?  
  
No. Sherlock—he was still getting used to the unusual name—said that he was clean, so John decided not to think about it. Concentrate on moving in, he told himself. He had very little in the way of belongings with him at that moment; he had never gotten around to retrieving his other things from storage after he got back from Afghanistan. He hadn’t actually _cared_ about his things at that point, to be honest. He had had some clothing, a few books, his laptop, some dishes—that was pretty much it. The bedsit had never been “home.” Now he would like to have the rest of his books and some of his framed photos to put up in his bedroom. Yes, that would be nice.  
  
The bedroom itself was quite homely, tucked up under the roof. He’d be sharing the bathroom, kitchen, and (already cluttered) sitting room, of course, but the flight of stairs provided a sense of privacy.  
  
“There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two…” Mrs Hudson’s words floated through his head again.  
  
and  
  
“Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Mycroft Holmes had smirked.  
  
and  
  
“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic,” Angelo had smiled.  
  
and finally  
  
“ _Girl_ friend? No, not really my area.”  
  
And why _had_ it taken him so long to realise what all that meant? He felt like an idiot (practically everyone was, really?). Perhaps it was that he was busier learning that his new flatmate was a “consulting detective” and a genius and an (ex-?) addict and eerily observant and a charmer and a bit of a dickhead. Okay, more than a bit. All of that was apparently enough to be going on at first. But it didn’t matter in the slightest to him if Sherlock was gay—it was exactly what he had said: it was fine. They were flatmates. It was all fine.  
  
*  
  
John leaned back against his headboard. He was bare to the waist; comfortable in pyjama bottoms, and with the door to his bedroom closed, he was all right with not covering his scar. No one fussed about how warm he kept the room. He had his laptop on his thighs, typing madly as images flashed through his mind—a vivid pink raincoat; an ordinary cab. He remembered his heart racing as Sherlock encouraged him to leap from one building to the other. He remembered how steady his hand had been when he... well. Orange shock blanket. Pink suitcase. Sherlock’s blue scarf and black curls.  
  
A candle on the table in the restaurant.  
  
John had no idea what he going to do with what he was writing. He was recording it mainly for himself—he wanted to capture every moment; every thrill. He wanted to remember it all.  
  
Maybe he would post it on his blog. It was certainly _much_ more exciting than the past… the past _anything_ since he had come home, to be honest. Maybe Ella’s calm head would finally explode.  
  
Who else would read it if he posted it, anyway—other than his therapist and his sister? Should he ask Sherlock’s permission before posting it? The media’s version of the “serial suicides” was already all over the place—inaccuracies and all. While he certainly didn’t mind not being identified as the mysterious shooter ( _that_ was an understatement), he was a bit miffed on Sherlock’s behalf that all the credit for catching the mad cabbie was given to Scotland Yard. Sherlock’s picture—with the orange blanket draped over his shoulders—appeared in a few places, but in many cases, he was identified as simply “the would-be next victim.” John typed on.   
  
It might have crossed his mind that he was miffed on the behalf of someone he had known—it could still be counted in just days, couldn’t it?  
  
He glanced over at the corner of his bedroom, where his cane was propped, abandoned. He wondered if he should just get rid of it. What would the point of keeping it around be? He hadn’t had a twinge—not a single one—in his leg since that mad dash through the alleys and across the rooftops of London.  
  
No, he decided. He would hang onto it. It was a vivid reminder of the power of the human mind—and its inability at times to understand itself.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock smiled down at John. They were organising their books. John had gotten his out of storage, and Sherlock was making space for them on the shelves. The shorter man was sitting on the floor, sorting books by subject. He had considered keeping his separate from Sherlock’s, but when he saw how much overlap there was, he suggested organising them by subject instead. Sherlock had readily agreed—he was already eyeing some of John’s medical texts greedily. So, Sherlock had taken all the books off the shelves and they had started from scratch.  
  
“So, chemistry texts, then medical—”  
  
“Put poisons between those,” Sherlock requested.  
  
“That actually makes sense,” John nodded, following through. As John finished each category, Sherlock would sweep the books up in his large hands (it was a bit alarming how many he could hold) and slip them onto the shelves. John wasn’t bothering to organise them within their categories; his new flatmate had some sort of system that was unfathomable to him. It was fine with him.  
  
He had already discovered that “unfathomable” was a word he would be using a great deal while living with Sherlock Holmes. The books, for example—Sherlock had a system that made absolutely no sense. It was more like “no human being would stack books like this.” Which was a popular culture quote that would just _sail_ over the dark curls, Sherlock frowning away under them.  
  
“ _The Dynamics of Combustion_?” John wondered aloud. “Should I be worried?”  
  
“What?! No. Never mind that. Erm…. physics section.”  
  
“I’m beginning to think that you wouldn’t need a book to tell you about ‘combustion,’” John continued, obediently adding it to the “physics” pile and not noticing Sherlock’s subtle sigh of relief.  
  
“Woo hoo!” Mrs Hudson called out. John had already learned that “not their housekeeper” certainly _was_ in many ways—and in many ways rather more like a mum and that was sort of adorable and fine with him. It was interesting—even though Sherlock had just moved in a few days—a week at most—before him (Well, he had moved his clutter in, but their landlady hadn’t even “gotten around to giving him a key” yet, according to her; John wondered about that—was finding a flatmate some sort of prerequisite?), it was extremely obvious that his relationship with the older woman went much further back. They were so familiar—and so affectionate. He’d only known them a week ( _just_ a week— _including_ the two days of utter madness at the first), but he had already discovered that the inscrutable and perpetually-angry Sherlock Holmes had a _huge_ soft spot for their landlady, and she for him.  
  
Why else would she put up with the git?  
  
Yes, she had taken his skull (“It was giving me the willies when I was cleaning,” she had explained, and John wasn’t sure if he should object more strenuously to her taking the skull or to her cleaning; it was their mess, after all) and she complained when the experiments were mainly noxious fumes and a somewhat dazed master chemist (“He has no idea how to open a window. Thank goodness he’s got you now,” she had fussed), but mostly she adored and respected her mad (and sweet) tenant. But other than Sherlock explaining—just mentioning, really—that he had something to do with her husband being executed—John had no idea how they had become not just acquainted but so fond of one another.  
  
In time, John supposed, handing up “blood splatters” to his new flatmate. Seriously, the man had more than one book on blood splatters.  
  
No, he was not just his new flatmate.  
  
No. Not even. His new _mate_. That had been the last thing he was considering when Stamford first introduced them. And it most certainly wasn’t the direction he planned on taking when he first saw the flat. No—John had been perfectly prepared at that point to sit in that chair by the fireplace and have Mrs Hudson make him tea so he could “rest his leg.” He was already good at letting most people think that it was his leg that had been shot. Shame that Stamford had heard Sherlock’s little “deduction” about that in Bart’s. But when that tall, pale man with the unnatural, unsettling, intense eyes had stepped back into the sitting room and invited him along, his heart had leapt for joy over something he didn’t even realise he had been missing. And now…  
  
“How is it going?” Mrs Hudson’s soft voice eventually pierced the miasma of contemplation that had settled over the ex-army captain.  
  
“Just fine,” he had smiled, and she had smiled warmly back. That was nice, he reflected—even though she and Sherlock had what must have been quite a history, neither of them made him feel excluded or new. In fact, it was sort of interesting how quickly they had simply absorbed him into their lives.  
  
And how quickly he had been happy to be absorbed.  
  
Even when he had been living with his family—Mum and Dad (before Dad died—when John was ten) and Harry (when she was still called Harriet for the most part) and Gran (Dad’s mum)—John Watson had never felt so at home in his life.  
  
“Do you think you’ll need a bookcase or something?” she wondered, staring at the impressive collection of books.  
  
“Can’t they just stay on the floor or somewhere?” Sherlock wondered back, looking baffled. No, of course he wouldn’t see the need for specialised furniture. He used their kitchen like a chemistry lab, the sofa for a bed, and the coffee table as some sort of step stool. Lord knew what his bedroom must be like.  
  
“It would be nicer if they were on shelves, Sherlock,” she had remarked—not sternly, but firmly. And he had nodded in acquiescence. Really? What? “I’ll organise something, shall I?” she replied blithely—or was it? John would not have sworn to it, but did he detect a hint of victory in her voice?  
  
“If you think that’s best,” he told her, and she smiled that warm, loving, _accepting_ smile at both of them… Oh. Right. Second bedroom “if you’ll be needing two.” John looked at the pile of books he was sorting—the _combined_ pile of books—and just shrugged. Whatever. It was fine.  
  
“How about some tea, then?” she responded, moving to the kitchen. John watched her go, and the doctor in him noted that yes, she did “have a hip.” It wasn’t obvious, but to his trained eye, he could see that she took very slightly shorter steps with her left leg. He wondered if it could be—  
  
Sherlock kicked him.  
  
 _What_? John looked up in annoyance and wonder.  
  
A glance towards the kitchen, one long-fingered hand sliding down to his own hip, and the tiniest shake of a head.  
  
Ah. John got it and nodded. Unless Mrs Hudson asked for medical assistance or an opinion, “the hip” was not a topic of inquiry. All right. That was fair. “Shouldn’t general forensics go before blood spatters?” he asked instead, indicating a large stack.  
  
He was treated to what he would learn was a rare experience for other people—another genuine smile from Sherlock Holmes.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“Not hungry,” he called out from his bedroom.  
  
“Have you had anything to eat at all today?” he called back from the kitchen, frowning in concern.  
  
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom slammed shut.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock stepped back and admired his work. The framed Periodic Table of Elements was an excellent addition to the décor of his bedroom. Not to everyone’s taste, of course, but who would see it other than himself?  
  
And Mrs Hudson. She came in sometimes to clean.  
  
She would like it. It wasn’t a body part and required very little dusting.  
  
*  
  
“Next time, would you please _label_ everything?” the doctor growled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “There’s more over there.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the remains of the beaker that had been residing in the fridge—next to the milk.  
  
Sherlock pouted—John could tell that he was pouting even though he couldn’t see his face—as he knelt and gingerly cleaned up the glass. “You don’t label the shopping,” he grumbled.  
  
“That is because A) it is fairly obvious what’s in the packets because they’re already labelled and B) that is what is _supposed_ to be in the fridge.”  
  
“I’m sorry, John.” Did he—did he really? He certainly sounded contrite. Was he really? He gave the floor one last wipe and straightened up. Oh, yes—puppy dog eyes and all.  
  
John chuckled. “You idiot. It’s all right. Just warn me ahead of time instead of shouting at me _after_ I’ve picked up a beaker full of—no, I still don’t want to know what it was. You scared the _shit_ out of me.”  
  
“Language, John.” He smiled shyly back at the doctor.  
  
*  
  
“Did you eat _all_ the biscuits Mrs Hudson made?”  
  
“Possibly. How many did she make?”  
  
John sighed. At least he had eaten something.  
  
*  
  
John stepped back and admired his work. He had hung several photos—family, school, service—on the walls of his bedroom. They were in a comfortable mixture of inexpensive frames. He had more photos on his laptop, of course, but there was something more intimate about having the prints surrounding him.  
  
*  
  
“We’ve had fish and chips three times this week and Chinese twice. Not the greatest diet,” John commented, waving a chip at his flatmate to emphasise his point.  
  
“I like it,” Sherlock muttered, ducking his head down so John couldn’t see his face.  
  
*  
  
“That’s an impressive stash of first-aid supplies,” John commented, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the bathroom, where Sherlock had left a collection of bandages, antiseptic cream and cleanser, and plasters of assorted sizes.  
  
"I have to be careful," Sherlock explained. "I work with a lot of poisons. Broken skin can be problematic."  
  
John nodded in approval. It was the first sign of any sort of self-preservation Sherlock had shown.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock rolled onto his back. He had heard John head up to his bedroom; the stairs creaked. He imagined him lying on his bed, one story up. He had been into John’s bedroom, of course, the very first opportunity he had and as many times after as he could manage. It had made him smile to see how neat it was: bed crisply made, clothing hung precisely. There were a few photos on the walls—he recalled John mentioning that he had gotten them out of storage and then hearing the bang of the hammer as he drove in some nails.  
  
He had examined them. Nothing extraordinary. His sister looked like him, which was a bit unfortunate for her. He had smiled at the images of a younger John—less wear and tear, but with the same warm eyes and engaging grin.  
  
He particularly liked the ones of John in Afghanistan. In uniform.  
  
 _Stop that,_ he told himself.  
  
*  
  
“ _A Clockwork Orange_ is a classic film, and I guarantee you’ll like it. I’m surprised you’ve never seen it.”  
  
“What is it about?”  
  
“Horrific medical experiments and criminal violence. And Beethoven.”  
  
“Doesn’t sound _too_ dull.”  
  
John glanced over at his mate in delight; not three minutes in, he was hooked.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck! That hurt!” John dropped into his chair and rubbed his stockinged foot. “What was that?” He glanced down at the floor, searching for whatever it was he had just stepped on so painfully.  
  
“Doctor Watson, about your language…” Sherlock was… was he really? Was he teasing?  
  
John grinned. Silly man. “I’ll use whatever fucking language I want,” he retorted lightly.  
  
“Apparently,” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t let Mrs Hudson hear you. She’s got rules about that.”  
  
“Why would she?” John asked in puzzlement. “You don’t use language like that.”  
  
“Why do you think I don’t?” Sherlock replied with a careless lift of one eyebrow.  
  
John giggled.  
  
*  
  
He glanced at his mobile. He had a message—oh. From Ella’s office. Why… oh, damn! He had had an appointment. He had completely forgotten. He had done that the week before as well.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock tipped his head up thoughtfully and peered at the ceiling, wishing, as he did sometimes, that he was equipped not just with keen eyesight but x-ray vision.  
  
He knew that John had nightmares—not very often, thankfully. They seemed to bother him mainly when he was overly tired—which was usually when he had been out all night with Sherlock. He presumed they had to do with the war, but he never asked. He never let on that he knew about them at all; pretended that he didn’t hear the weeping.  
  
He raised his bow and began to play a soft, sweet tune.  
  
He played until he could hear no more distressed—and distressing—noises from upstairs.  
  
*  
  
Hmm. He could have sworn he had left his cane in the corner of his bedroom, but there it was, leaning against his bed. He must have been fiddling with it absent-mindedly.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock slit open the envelope addressed to him. “Oh, that,” he commented, tossing the enclosed cheque on the desk.  
  
“That what?” John asked curiously.  
  
“Payment on an old case. Before your time.”  
  
“How much before?” the doctor wondered.  
  
“What month is it?”  
  
John shook his head. “That Sargent Donovan said you don’t accept fees.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “She’s a moron. I don’t demand a fee, but I’m perfectly willing to accept what people offer. Sometimes they even pay. Eventually. Hopefully.” He suddenly looked the slightest bit crestfallen, as if he had just noticed a flaw in this arrangement.  
  
“Maybe you should look into taking credit cards,” John suggested, not even slightly facetiously.  
  
*  
  
He skimmed down the list of locum jobs available in London. Sherlock had, voluntarily and surprisingly patiently, helped him organize his paperwork and showed him how to upload the documents so he could be ready with anything he might need.  
  
*  
  
“Got a job interview!” John shouted down the hallway as he dashed out, tugging his “good” jacket on.  
  
*  
  
“Didn’t go well?” Sherlock asked impassively before even looking up at him. Okay, that was irritating sometimes.  
  
“Wasn’t really a good fit,” John admitted.  
  
His flatmate glanced sideways at him and nodded in agreement. “Something will turn up,” he offered a bit more sympathetically, his eyes returning to his laptop.  
  
*  
  
John’s funds were now getting dangerously low, and it was putting him on edge. His flatmate’s seeming unconcern for such mundane things as paying one’s bills and purchasing food wasn’t helping. John wondered—not for the first time—if Sherlock had some sort of trust fund. Perhaps his brother paid him an allowance of sorts? He was now seriously regretting turning down Mycroft’s offer of a significant amount of money to spy on him.  
  
He allowed himself to get distracted by that thought for a bit. It could have been fun, he realised—they could have made up all sorts of ridiculous things to tell the elder brother.  
  
Not that simply telling the truth about living with Sherlock wasn’t ridiculous all on its own.  
  
*  
  
A few days later , John got into an argument with a chip-and-PIN machine and Sherlock got into an argument with a table. That John was more annoyed at Sherlock’s seeming indifference to his issue with the shopping than he was about the damage to the table was becoming oddly normal.  
  
Then John swallowed his pride and _thought_ he asked Sherlock for a loan. But no, their trip to the bank had nothing whatsoever to do with the doctor’s predicament.  
  
They dealt with their reactions to their encounter with Sherlock’s “old friend” Sebastian Wilkes in rather different ways, but what with one thing (the graffiti code) and another (and how old _was_ DI Dimmock? John wanted to ask if he had permission from his mummy to be there), the issue got somewhat pushed aside for a bit.  
  
*  
  
How John managed to fit another job interview in with—well, everything—he wasn’t sure, and then there were Chinese acrobats…  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

John nearly collapsed onto his bed. He was so wound up that despite being exhausted he knew he would have trouble falling asleep. They had spent the hours after their rescue from General Shan and her devilish device giving statements, and then John and Sarah made a visit to A & E so they could have their injuries checked out (even though both of them kept insisting that they were doctors and did not need to be checked). They had separated from Sherlock on the street as he was speaking to DI Dimmock, and John made a mental note to check on his flatmate’s throat when he was given an opportunity. He hadn’t said anything, but John caught him more than once wincing when he swallowed and putting a hesitant few fingers on it.  
  
And now, after getting Sarah to her flat, he was finally home. Sherlock had entered virtually on his heels. He was anxious and tense and asked John if he and Sarah were all right three times. Each time John affirmed more adamantly that yes, they would be fine, and after the third query suggested that he check on Sherlock’s throat, which finally shut the gangly man up—for a bit.  
  
“I’m fine, John,” was the brusque response, followed by a rather sulky silence during which Sherlock decided to continue to glare at the photos of the graffiti. John took advantage of the lull to escape to his wonderfully quiet bedroom and the peace of his bed.   
  
God, it felt good to change and slip between the sheets. But now every muscle ached and images of their adventure bounced around in his head and he couldn’t fall asleep…  
  
Dull thuds drifted up the stairs. For some reason, the sound was oddly comforting.  
  
John finally drifted off, hoping that Sherlock would eventually be able to do the same.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, John was amazed and rather alarmed to discover that Sherlock had re-boxed the hundreds of books that had covered every surface of the flat; they were stacked downstairs in Mrs Hudson’s vestibule. It meant that he most certainly had spent most if not all of the night awake.   
  
John scraped together some breakfast for himself (he really did have to get the shopping); Sherlock had surprisingly made coffee—and had three cups. Despite his lack of sleep, the detective was sharp and tidy and dressed as neatly as ever when they headed to the bank again.  
  
It most certainly did not go over John’s head that Sherlock had rather pointedly sent him into Sebastian Wilkes’ office to retrieve the remainder of his fee (and John more than enjoyed the sulky expression on the pompous prick’s face) while he delivered the news about the value of the jade hairpin to an overwhelmed PA.  
  
Seb Wilkes didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to see Sherlock again, either.  
  
*  
  
“Fresh sea scallops cooked in brandy and cream sauce over linguine,” the waiter intoned, depositing a large, full plate in front of Sherlock. “Orecchiette alla barese—artichoke, aubergine, mincemeat, and tomato,” he added as he placed John’s dinner on the table.  
  
“Thank you,” John responded. He glanced down at his own plate and then across the table at Sherlock’s—and frowned. Sherlock had unexpectedly leaned back in his chair, away from the table. “Are you all right?”  
  
Sherlock scowled back. “Certainly. Why?”  
  
“You looked a bit… wobbly, just now.”  
  
“I do not require your services at the moment, _Doctor_ ,” he snapped.  
  
What? Had he hit a nerve? Apparently, yes. Sherlock was now staring moodily out the window.  
  
“Sorry,” the doctor offered. He had no idea what had just happened. “Is your dinner all right?”  
  
Sherlock barely glanced down at his plate and he seemed intent on not looking across the table. “It’s fine.”  
  
John looked at him carefully. “And what about mine?” he asked quietly.  
  
“What _about_ yours?”  
  
Most definitely was avoiding looking at it.  
  
“Never mind. Sorry.”  
  
*  
  
“You do know that your so-called ‘friend’ Sebastian Wilkes is a prick, right?” John asked sincerely, taking an indecently large bite of his crème caramel.  
  
“He’s not my friend,” Sherlock muttered around his sorbet.  
  
“No, he’s not. I’m glad you know that. Prick.”  
  
That earned him the slightest of shy smiles.  
  
*  
  
They headed home, and he was relieved when his mate finally began to show signs of fatigue. “Go to bed,” he told him firmly. He pointed towards Sherlock’s bedroom and the man peered down the hallway through bleary, half-shut eyes, nodded, and wobbled into the bathroom to have a wash.  
  
*  
  
The next morning John was somewhat dismayed to hear Sherlock’s murmured “no thank you” to his offer of breakfast, but encouraged when he didn’t object to John joining him at the desk with his plate. The doctor observed him as he snapped open one of the newspapers. Dressing gown over a crisp buttoned shirt and trousers. Socks and shoes. Sitting bolt upright. Quiet.  
  
Shielded.  
  
“You _mind_ , don’t you?” he asked him.   
  
“What?”  
  
“That she escaped—General Shan. It’s not enough that we got her two henchmen,” he pursued.  
  
His mate’s expression remained closed, his voice low. “It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface.”  
  
“You cracked the code, though, Sherlock; and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that _he_ knows it,” John continued earnestly. He was growing concerned.  
  
“No. No. I cracked _this_ code; all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book.”   
  
And every nerve in John’s body screamed as he observed the tight mouth, the sad eyes. Yes, he most certainly _did_ mind.  
  
*  
  
He was on his way to work when it hit him: Sherlock had said “you and I.” He had said “ _we_.”  
  
*  
  
He was not terribly (not at all) surprised that Sarah hadn’t made it back to work yet. Sarah. Yeah… Well-played date, John Watson. So slick. So suave. So… traumatising.  
  
He felt horribly guilty—even if the entire mess _was_ Sherlock’s fault—so he threw himself into his work, seeing both his own and her patients. The day was a blur of sore throats and coughs and a rather nasty infected cut—and he couldn’t deny that, very briefly, he considered taking a swab home to Sherlock.  
  
When he got home, Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut. He debated—should he knock?  
  
And say what? Offer him dinner when he clearly didn’t care for half of what John prepared? Suggest watching some telly when he was generally disdainful of John’s taste in programmes? They had been getting more and more comfortable with each other when Sebastian Wilkes’ email had thrown a spanner in the works, and now John had the oddest feeling—like they were back at square one. No, not even. They had never been at square one with each other in the first place. They had sort of skipped that step—and the several following. But now John felt like he was living with a stranger.  
  
*  
  
Three o’clock in the morning and John had been startled out of a sound sleep by the street door slamming open two storeys below. So, okay, it was more than likely Sherlock who was crashing in at that ungodly hour.  
  
Hopefully.  
  
Of course, there was a dim possibility that it was someone else. Mrs Hudson had some “interesting” friends. Still, they were for the most part a genteel lot and not inclined to break into other people’s homes in the dead of night. Not usually…  
  
John eased the door to his bedroom open carefully and headed down to the first floor, his bare feet quiet on the treads.  
  
“Oh, John! Sorry. Bit late.”  
  
Oh shit. That detective inspector had been right.  
  
Sherlock was clearly as high as a kite. Eyes dilated. Movements sudden and jerky. Unable to make eye contact.  
  
“What have you gotten into?” he asked bluntly.  
  
“’m fine,” he mumbled. He wrestled off his coat (which John had discovered was some sort of blue wool talisman that he couldn’t quite pin down yet but was determined to). “I’m fine,” he repeated impatiently. “Isn’t it time for you to be in bed?”  
  
John thought about it. Sure, it was time to be in bed. In fact, he _had_ been in bed. “Just…” What do you say? _Just let me check on the possible junkie with whom I am living?_  
  
 _Sure. Why not?_  
  
Sherlock’s tone cut through his hesitant musing with a sharp, “Go back to bed.”   
  
“No. I want to examine you.”  
  
“Why?” his mad flatmate demanded in a growl.  
  
“Just let me check you,” he repeated, reasonably.  
  
“What for?”  
  
“For what that DI was looking for.”  
  
“It’s none of your business.”  
  
“I’m a doctor,” he reminded him, “and your flatmate. It is without a doubt my business.”  
  
“Shut up,” was the retort. The gangly man began pacing.  
  
“Sit down,” he requested politely. “If you’re all right and haven’t gotten into anything, there’s no harm if I check on you, right?”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in fury. John had him dead to rights. Or did he? Maybe he was an idiot. Most people were. Maybe he could fool him. Damn. He thought John was better than that. What if he wasn’t? What if he proved to be a moron like everyone else? That would be so disappointing. He had had high hopes… for what? Who was he kidding? The doctor was straight. He even did that… that dating thing. With _women_.  
  
Which was really a shame because—  
  
“I said, _sit down_ ,” John commanded.  
  
Commanded? Really? Interesting.  
  
Really interesting.  
  
Sherlock Holmes found John Watson commanding him really rather interesting.   
  
Oh, damn. That probably wasn’t good.  
  
He sat down.  
  
*  
  
Oh. He had sat down. That was a surprise. John had expected a bit more of a fight. He might even have been looking forward to it. Granted, he could barely stay on the sofa he was so jittery, but he had taken his jacket off and was sitting down. All right. That was his cue.  
  
“Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s take a look.”  
  
He reached out to unfasten the younger man’s shirtsleeve—and stopped, his hand hovering over the thin wrist and tidy cuff. It was nothing John hadn’t done for a patient before, but at that moment, John wasn’t tending to Sherlock as a patient—not _just_ a patient—but as a mate with some issues and possibly John could help with at least one of them.  
  
Why?  
  
 _Why_ did he want to be there with this most ridiculous, dangerous man?  
  
Did it matter?  
  
It hadn’t mattered when he headed out the door with Sherlock, Mrs Hudson tutting at “both of you.” It hadn’t mattered when the positively supercilious older brother had essentially kidnapped him. It hadn’t mattered when he had picked up that laptop and gone out and hailed a cab with his highly illegal pistol in his pocket to find the bastard. It certainly hadn’t mattered when that bullet hit the glass—because for some odd reason even though he had only known him—what, a day at that point? —he had actually truly cared about whether the gangly git lived or died.  
  
Mycroft had been right—he had become very loyal, very quickly. Why?  
  
Never mind. Not the time to be wool gathering. He reached out and gently undid Sherlock’s shirt cuff.  
  
*  
  
“Okay,” he finally sighed. “You’re officially high. Proud of yourself?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” Sherlock smirked brattily. John smacked him on the back of his head. “What was that for?” he demanded in outrage.  
  
“You’re an idiot. There’s a reason cocaine is illegal. Do you _want_ to kill yourself?”  
  
“I’m fine.” He was up and pacing again, impatiently flicking the cuffs of his shirt down again; John had been so very careful when he had unfastened them and folded them up, exposing the almost alarmingly white skin with the blue veins and the small red marks—he had been very careful not to stare at them, but he mentally filed away the fact that they were in the crook of his elbow and he always— _always_ —wore sleeves that covered him to mid-forearm. Even when flicking up his cuff to display his nicotine patch to Lestrade he had been careful not to expose more than necessary, and he always wore a dressing gown over a t-shirt—clever bugger.  
  
“Go back to bed, John.”  
  
“I’m concerned about you,” he replied evenly.   
  
“The concern is not welcome, _Doctor_ ,” he responded rudely.   
  
John sighed. He really did want to be back in bed. It was cold downstairs, and Sherlock was in no frame of mind to have a serious conversation, anyway. “Fine. I’m going back to bed. I take it that you will _not_ be going to bed any time soon.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged; a mockery of acquiescence. “So?”  
  
“So, if you’re going to be up, at least please be quiet. I’ve got to get up for work in a few hours. All right?”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.  
  
He sighed. “Good. I won’t bother you in the morning.” He trudged back up the stairs, hating every step further away they took him from Sherlock.  
  
*   
  
He had come home from a horrible day at the surgery—it probably wouldn’t have been so dreadful if he had gotten a full night’s sleep—to Sherlock slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. It looked like he was still wearing what he had had on the night before.  
  
“You all right?”  
  
“Headache,” the younger man growled.  
  
“Do you want something for it?” Not waiting for an answer, John strode down the hallway to the bathroom and grabbed some paracetamol. He filled up a glass of water on his way back through the kitchen. “Here,” he offered. His mate glanced up and accepted the tablets with one shaking hand. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?” Even as he was asking, John’s expression changed as he observed the thin man. Headache. Shaky. Irritable. And he was avoiding eye contact. Right. “I’m not an idiot,” he commented bitterly. “Withdrawals?”  
  
“From what?” Sherlock replied obnoxiously, popping the tablets into his mouth and swallowing them without taking any of the water.  
  
“Your last hit.”  
  
“Can’t I just have a headache?”  
  
“If you hadn’t been higher than fuck last night, yes.”  
  
“Go away, John,” Sherlock requested despondently. He shoved clumsily at the glass of water John offered again.  
  
“Nope. Not going anywhere.” John dropped into his chair.  
  
They sat in silence for a bit. Sherlock, his chin to his chest, fidgeted with the crease of his trousers and John observed him.  
  
“It’s all right,” the doctor finally said, quietly.  
  
“What is?” Sherlock spat back suspiciously. He couldn’t look at his flatmate.  
  
“I know you can’t just walk away from it.”  
  
There was silence again.  
  
After half an hour, Sherlock got up without a word and, managing not to look at his mate, walked slowly down the hallway to his bedroom.  
  



	4. Chapter 4

They stumbled through a week, John intent on making things as stable as possible. Regular hours at work. Regular breakfasts and dinners. He made it clear that Sherlock was to join him for at least one of those meals each day, and he ensured that at least one meal a day he stuck to the few things that he knew his finicky flatmate would consume.  
  
Three days in, he made a point of making a shopping list, announcing each item as he jotted it down loudly enough for his flatmate, who was sitting in his chair reading something, to hear. He then called out to him. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to get?” he inquired, hoping he sounded casual; indifferent.  
  
Sherlock glanced up at him briefly, then dropped his head back down to his book before muttering something.  
  
“What was that?” John inquired, moving towards him.  
  
“Can we have apples?” he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed on the tome.  
  
“Apples? Sure. Of course. What about biscuits? What’s your favourite?”  
  
“Jammie dodgers.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
*  
  
“Nothing of mine needs to be dry cleaned, but thanks for the offer.” John flipped the pages of his newest medical journal, not bothering to look in Sherlock’s direction.  
  
“ _Nothing_?”  
  
He looked, and then giggled at the horror-struck expression he had evoked.  
  
*  
  
“How did it go?” Sherlock asked earnestly, looking at his flatmate with genuine concern.  
  
“It was horrible.” John fell gratefully into his chair and kicked off his shoes. Dinner with Harry had been exactly what he had described. His stomach was in knots, and without realising it, his hand reached up and massaged a vein in his temple that was throbbing uncomfortably. “Next time, you are going with me, and you are going to deduce the hell out of her.”  
  
“Doesn’t that irritate people?”  
  
“God, yes.”  
  
“Ah.” Sherlock accepted this graciously, then gave John a shy smile and lifted his violin to his shoulder.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” John called out, knocking lightly on the partially-closed bedroom door.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“You’ve got a package.” He took a step into the doorway and gestured with the box that Mrs Hudson had just brought up.  
  
His flatmate was propped up against his headboard with some pillows, reading. “Oh! Yes.” He sat up and reached out for it. “It’s dissecting trays—I ordered them ages ago.”  
  
“Dissecting trays?” John dug his pocket knife out and handed it to his mate so he could open the package.  
  
“And a few other instruments,” he remarked, neatly slicing open the box. He held it out to the doctor so he could see the contents—a collection of forceps, scissors, T-pins, scalpels, and the like, plus three wax trays.  
  
“That’s quite the collection,” he nodded. “Do you intend to use them here, in the flat?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Not at Bart’s.” It came out as more of a statement than a question.  
  
“Well, if I was doing dissections at Bart’s I wouldn’t need the equipment here, would I?”  
  
“Lunatic,” John chuckled. “We _will_ be reviewing proper sterilisation techniques, you know.”  
  
“If we must,” he sighed in somewhat amused acceptance.  
  
*  
  
“I _promise_ it will not be like the last one.”   
  
“Which part—the kidnapping, nearly being killed, or your flatmate joining us?” Sarah tried to make her voice sound light and teasing, but there was definitely an undercurrent.  
  
“Erm…”  
  
“How about I pick where we go?”  
  
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”  
  
God, John was relieved, because honestly with Sherlock around he couldn’t actually _guarantee_ that those things would not happen again.  
  
*  
  
Date.  
  
John had a date.  
  
Didn’t everyone? Have a date? It always _was_ a date—there always was one. Every day.  
  
What was the date? What day was it?  
  
Days and dates—they didn’t matter until they did. He had tried explaining that to someone once—his brother, possibly—that that was not a contradiction. He didn’t have a regular job with regular hours. He didn’t attend church on Sundays. He didn’t have Friday nights out at the pub or a favourite programme to watch. He didn’t even have any sort of internal twenty-four-hour cycle. It generally didn’t matter in the slightest to Sherlock Holmes if it was ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning or five-thirty in the afternoon on a Sunday. He slept when he was tired (sometimes) and got up when he wished. He ate whatever sort of meal he was in the mood for whenever it struck him—if you’re getting up at three o’clock in the afternoon did it really matter if you broke your fast with chocolate mousse or with a bacon butty?  
  
What did matter—what he had proven mattered—was days and dates as they pertained to cases. Why had the thief not left the city the day after the bank heist? Oh, there was a bank holiday and the traffic was a nightmare. What were the dates on which the client had received the threatening messages? On the 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 7th, 11th, and 13th? Well, the next would come on the 17th, then the 19th, 23rd, 29th—and hopefully the lunatic would not get around to sending the last message on the 31st, because the client hadn’t paid him yet and collecting from the relatives of the freshly-deceased tended to be challenging.  
  
What was today? Was John at work? When would he be home?  
  
After his date.  
  
It was all rather confusing sometimes.  
  
*  
  
“John?!” Sherlock jumped up hastily from his chair, fumbling with his—  
  
John wondered, very briefly, if he should ask why his flatmate was wearing nothing but a sheet.  
  
 _No_ , he decided. _Not important._  
  
“You’re home early. Did you not have a… date?”  
  
“I did. Sarah cancelled last minute. Family emergency.”  
  
“’Family emergency’ or ‘my-last-date-with-John-Watson-ended-rather-badly’?”  
  
“More like she got a better offer.” John shucked his coat and hung it up.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I don’t think a woman freshens her makeup and changes to nicer shoes for a family emergency.”  
  
“Good, John. Your observations are improving.”  
  
“Thank you. Now, why don’t you get dressed and we can go out and get something to eat—my treat.”   
  
“Are you asking me on a date?” Sherlock looked at him rather intently.  
  
“No, I am not asking you on a date. Where do you get these ideas?” John wondered.  
  
“You just invited me to dinner. You offered to cover the expense. You clearly expect me to put on something nicer…” and then he couldn’t keep a straight face any longer and grinned at John.  
  
“It’s not a date, you brat,” John chuckled. “Go get dressed.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and obediently headed to his bedroom, grabbing at the sheet as it slithered down.  
  
*  
  
Should he say something? Maybe he had been mistaken. Should he ask? Maybe it was his imagination.  
  
A trick of the light.  
  
The creases of the sheet pressing into the ivory skin.  
  
Yes, that had to have been it.  
  
It had to have been his imagination.  
  
*  
  
“So, it turns out, it really was a family emergency,” he reported somewhat triumphantly. “Something about her mother. Apparently, she makes remarks about Sarah’s appearance—”  
  
“Boring.”  
  
All right, then.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

John thought it was utterly adorable—they were headed down to Mrs Hudson’s for dinner and Sherlock had obviously put some effort into his appearance, looking elegant in his suit and fussing with his hair. Seeing this, John had casually gone up to his room and found a nicer jumper, surveying his collection of shirts somewhat critically. He possibly could do with something of an upgrade.  
  
His new flatmate could probably help with that. He had exquisite taste… expensive taste. On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t be the best guide. He obviously had put some thought into John’s wardrobe, though—he had been somewhat horrified at what John had worn to his interview. John had defended himself valiantly—he had had no time to get tidied up, what with smugglers and all—and he had enjoyed pointing out that despite his lopsided collar, he had been hired.  
  
They headed downstairs precisely at seven o’clock, and Mrs Hudson opened her door with a sweet smile on her face.  
  
John thought the dinner was lovely—their landlady had done chicken breasts with a wild mushroom cream sauce, basmati and wild rice, and sliced green beans. Sherlock had picked up a very nice bottle of wine and they enjoyed his tutorial on it—John could really learn to appreciate it, he thought, with some guidance.  
  
The tutorial came before the dinner, the doctor realised later. From gregarious, Sherlock had gone to silent in three seconds flat as Mrs Hudson dished out. John didn’t notice at first; he was busy praising the older woman and enjoying being fussed over. Then he was distracted by her (possibly a bit long) story about discovering that the closest flower shop had closed rather unexpectedly, and from there the conversation had drifted into flowers in general, and…  
  
“Excuse me,” Sherlock had murmured. “Have to make a call. Urgent. Be right back.” He pushed away from the table so hurriedly that his fork fell to the floor.  
  
“Well, that was a bit rude,” John commented, picking it up.  
  
“Oh, he does that all the time,” the older woman commented dismissively, accepting it. “He’ll be back for pudding.”  
  
“Oh?” John replied, trying to keep his tone light when what he really wanted to do was to pounce on the poor woman and demand she tell him what she knew about the thin man’s eating habits.  
  
“I made him one of his favourites,” she responded. “Chocolate mousse.”  
  
“Thank you,” John murmured. He peered over at Sherlock’s plate. He had clearly eaten something—but not very much. A few bites of the chicken. Probably a few forkfuls each of the rice and the green beans.  
  
“He’s got such a finicky appetite—I never know what he’ll eat,” Mrs Hudson commented, shaking her head a bit as she rose and picked up the mostly-full plate. “For all his ‘educated’ taste when it comes to wine, he’s really rather basic with food. I should have stuck to chips.”  
  
“No… of course not. This was lovely.”  
  
Mrs Hudson had cleared John’s and her own empty plates—and hadn’t accepted John’s offer to do the washing up—by the time Sherlock reappeared. John could not swear to it, but he thought that he looked rather pale—well, paler.  
  
He did, at least, eat all his chocolate mousse.  
  
*  
  
“We’re going shopping.” John was startled by being thrust into his coat. Considering how thin he was, Sherlock was surprisingly strong.  
  
“Shopping? For…?”  
  
“You need some decent clothing, John.”  
  
“If by ‘decent’ you mean like the kit you wear, no thank you.” John wasn’t surprised to realise that even while he voiced his protest, he was being moved steadily down the stairs.  
  
“What’s wrong with what I wear?” his mate demanded as he opened the street door and pushed the doctor gently through.  
  
“Nothing. I mean, you always look fantastic in those suits and all that, but that’s just not me. I wouldn’t be comfortable dressed like that.”  
  
“Taxi!” Sherlock’s voice boomed. He looked at John in bewilderment as a cab rolled up. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I have no intention of getting you anything like that. Well, one decent suit wouldn’t hurt. And shoes. A few shirts.” They slid across the seat and as they settled themselves in, Sherlock gave the driver an address . “I promise that I’ll find some things you’ll be comfortable in.”  
  
“You better. How much is this going to cost?”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “What does that matter?”  
  
John laughed in disbelief. “You git. I’m just starting to pay off all my bills.”  
  
Sherlock’s scowl disappeared; his brow suddenly drawn down in confusion instead. He blinked. “Why is that still a problem?”  
  
“I’m not making a fortune at the surgery, you know.” John shook his head. This was apparently one of those things that Sherlock didn’t (or chose not to) understand, or remember.  
  
“But… John… I thought we discussed this.”  
  
“Discussed what?”  
  
“Those cheques from Sebastian Wilkes.”  
  
“They’re still on your desk.” He was annoyed that Sherlock had just left them floating around.  
  
“I thought we had discussed them.”  
  
“Sherlock, you do know that you tend to talk to me when I’m not with you.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“Yeah, you do. So anyway, what about the cheques?”  
  
“I had proposed—I thought I had proposed—to open a shared account.”  
  
“What?” John’s mouth fell open.  
  
“Yes, John. Half of that fee is yours.”  
  
There was a stunned silence. Sherlock frowned; what had he done wrong now? He had thought that his proposal was quite the opposite—John had clearly earned half of the fee.  
  
Had he told him that? Had he talked to him about it at all? Apparently not. He _had_ talked about it—of that he was certain. Had John been there? It was confusing sometimes.  
  
He had certainly _meant_ to talk to him about it.  
  
John gave him a sympathetic smile and laid his hand briefly on Sherlock’s. His flatmate was the most brilliant person he had ever met—about some things. Other things—what went into the fridge (and what didn’t) and planets and talking to someone meant that they should perhaps be within listening range—apparently confounded the brilliant brain.  
  
“It’s all right, Sherlock,” he commented quietly. “That’s… that’s incredible. Thank you.”  
  
The great detective nodded and swallowed.  
  
John found his discomfiture sort of… rather… endearing.  
  
*  
  
“Where are you going?” the detective demanded, frowning as he looked the doctor up and down. He had on one of his new shirts, new trousers, and even one of the pairs of shoes Sherlock had selected for him the previous week.  
  
“Date? I told you this morning.”  
  
“You said you were going out to dinner,” Sherlock replied petulantly.  
  
“Yeah… that’s the plan.”  
  
“You didn’t say it was a _date_.” He sounded decidedly put out.  
  
John stared at his flatmate. “Is there a problem with that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then why do you sound like a whiney teenager who’s had her mobile taken away?”  
  
“I do not!”  
  
John couldn’t help it; he snorted in amusement. “You do so,” he insisted. “Now, stay out of trouble while I’m out and if you’re good I’ll bring you ice cream.” Shaking his head and chuckling, he caught up his wallet and keys and headed out of the flat.  
  
*  
  
The first text came before he got to the tube station.  
  
 _I knew that shirt would suit you. SH_  
  
 _You have excellent taste_ John texted back.  
  
*  
  
The second was sent while he was underground; he received it as soon as he regained the surface.  
  
 _Tidy your collar. SH_  
  
John managed to keep his hands off his collar until he got to the corner just before Sarah’s block of flats.  
  
*  
  
The third came as he escorted Sarah into the restaurant she had chosen.  
  
 _Do not order the least-expensive dishes for yourself, nor the most expensive. SH_  
  
“Is that Sherlock?” she asked sharply, glaring at the device.  
  
He shook his head, an embarrassed grin on his face. “My sister,” he explained glibly, shoving the instrument into his pocket.  
  
*  
  
When his text alert chimed for the fourth time, he pointedly ignored it until they were done with their dinners and had ordered dessert. Excusing himself to the loo, he jerked his mobile from his pocket.  
  
 _Bring me sashimi. SH_  
  
John didn’t give the fact that Sherlock had somehow deduced that they were at a Japanese restaurant much thought; he would ask him about it later. He stopped and spoke to the hostess before returning to their table.  
  
*  
  
“What’s that?” Sarah asked, indicating the bag their waiter brought with the bill.  
  
“Oh… sashimi,” he replied casually.  
  
“For Sherlock,” she replied, a distinct edge to her voice.  
  
“I usually make us dinner,” he blurted out, realising as the words left his mouth how they sounded. “And you know I’m not exactly a gourmet chef, but he can barely put a sandwich together.” He winced at his own comment. _God. How much more idiotic can I sound?_ he thought, pressing his lips together to prevent anything else extraordinarily stupid from coming out.  
  
“Oh. I see.”  
  
 _Ouch._  
  
*  
  
The fifth text chimed just as she took his coat. “Oh, what does he want now?” she snarled, holding it out to him so he could retrieve his mobile from the pocket. He had been planning on ignoring it, but instead thanked her and withdrew it.  
  
 _Two drinks maximum. SH_  
  
He shook his head and thrust the instrument back into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” he apologised, smiling sweetly. “Sister again. At least she’s drunk texting and not drunk calling.”  
  
She gave him a sceptical look.  
  
*  
  
The sixth came as he emerged from the tube station. It was from Mrs Hudson. For a split second, he felt his chest tighten. What had he gotten into now?  
  
 _He fixed my loose cupboard door and says mint chocolate chip._  
  
He couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud.  
  
*  
  
“I have to stop spoiling you,” he commented as he handed the sashimi and ice cream to Sherlock.  
  
“Nonsense,” he replied, heading to the kitchen for utensils.  
  
*  
  
“You have made it abundantly clear that my behaviour brings you nothing but horror and humiliation, so why would you want me to be there?” he hissed.  
  
John was trying very hard not to giggle at his mate’s expression; he had answered Sherlock’s mobile for him and then unceremoniously shoved it to his ear when he heard the unmistakably “rounded tones” of the older brother. (That the caller ID had shown that Mycroft Holmes was “Killer of Dreams” in Sherlock’s contact list was making it impossible to keep a straight face.)  
  
“Can John come?”  
  
John stopped giggling—what?  
  
“Very well. Have one of your minions text me the details.” He ended the call abruptly.  
  
*  
  
Apparently, dinner at the home of Mycroft Holmes was a formal event. He didn’t even mind that Sherlock had, while he was at work, taken it upon himself to select his clothes for the evening—they were laid out on his bed—his new suit, one of his new shirts, and even a new tie.  
  
He was not surprised that rather than a cab, they had ridden in a sleek black car sent for the occasion.  
  
It must be nice to have money like that, John considered, humming happily as he sank into the luxurious leather seat.  
  
He wondered what they would have for dinner. It certainly wouldn’t be chips.  
  
*  
  
It was most certainly not chips. The guest of honour (whose name John never heard and realised after the fact that this was deliberate; she spoke English perfectly but with an accent that he could not easily identify) was apparently fond of Indian food, and the chef had clearly been happy to indulge. John had no idea of the names of most of the dishes, but each one was more mouth-watering than the previous. He knew he would be oozing all sorts of interesting odours for the next few days, but it was worth it.  
  
He also found the conversation fascinating. They had been seated at the end of the do-people-outside-of-films-really-have-dining-rooms-like-this huge table. When they had first arrived, there were cocktails and whatnot being served in some equally oversized and ostentatious sort of—John didn’t even know what that sort of room was called. It was tastefully decorated, without a doubt, and featured a grand piano—an actual, huge, black, shiny grand piano.  
  
“It’s locked,” Sherlock had murmured.  
  
“Always?” John asked, facetiously.  
  
“Not always,” his mate replied quietly.  
  
John couldn’t fathom why Mycroft had invited Sherlock. In fact, it was becoming more perplexing by the minute. Some of his guests had clearly met his brother before and had not been positively impressed. Some of them—a lot of them—actively avoided him. A few gave John a good, long look before pointedly turning their backs.  
  
A few, though—perhaps these were the people who Mycroft had intended to treat—or pacify—or distract—were clearly delighted or at least intrigued by the detective’s presence. John couldn’t help but notice that most of them were female. Most of them.  
  
There was one rather predatory sheik—at least he was dressed as one—and John was belatedly horrified to realise that he had essentially growled at the young man when Sherlock’s expression and posture made it clear that he was finding the attention not just annoying but distressing. _Where the hell had that come from?_ he wondered about himself. Still, Sherlock seemed grateful.  
  
So they had stumbled through the hour, Sherlock absolutely refusing to make small talk or taste the offered cocktails or passed hors d’oeuvres and at one point John wasn’t entirely sure but it certainly looked like he was having a small panic attack and he had taken his mate’s elbow and tugged him gently into a quiet corner and patted him on one bony shoulder and quietly encouraged him to take a few deep breaths and it was all right; there were a lot of people and he knew that Sherlock hated crowds and would he like a glass of wine and that resulted in a slight nod of acceptance so he then patted the thin forearm and told him to stay right there and he would get him one.  
  
And he did, and when he returned Sherlock was still in the corner, his back pressed against it, and he was being accosted by a Very Sincere Young Man who, when John approached them, immediately turned, and John was grateful to discover that it was he the young man wanted, not Sherlock, as he had clearly had enough and had gulped down the wine at an alarming rate while the young man pumped the doctor for details about PTSD.  
  
Then they had gone into dinner, and John had taken a quite firm grip on the sharp elbow to ensure that Sherlock actually got into the dining room.  
  
And then the meal had been served and it was all John could do to keep him in his chair.  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right?” John peered at his flatmate in concern.  
  
“Mmph.” Sherlock looked dreadful. His usual pallor had been replaced by a ghastly greenish-grey and his lips were pressed tightly together.  
  
“Was it the dinner?”  
  
John was alarmed but not surprised when, as they stopped at a traffic light, the thin man leaned out of the car and was sick.  
  
*  
  
“Okay. Bed and bucket time for you. Do you need—”  
  
Sherlock had put an abrupt hand up, stopping the doctor in his tracks, and he had stepped back in surrender, gazing in concern at his mate as he plunged down the hallway to the bathroom, dropping his coat and scarf on the floor as he went.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” John knocked gently on his bedroom door. It wasn’t locked; he swung it open.  
  
Sherlock was draped diagonally across his bed, lying on his stomach on top of the duvet. He was still wearing his now-less-than-crisp buttoned shirt and trousers.  
  
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.  
  
“Horrid.”  
  
“Would you like something to drink? You should have some water, or I could get you ginger ale.”  
  
“Tizer.”  
  
“Tizer? Really? All right. I suppose it can’t hurt. I’ll just pop out—be right back.”  
  
“John?” He sounded utterly exhausted.  
  
John paused. “Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock read the email three times.  
  
Well, two and half times.   
  
The third time was hampered by an odd blurring of his eyesight.  
  
He wanted to chuck the laptop across the room, and nearly did until he realised that it was John’s.  
  
He had been making an effort not to use it so often. It wasn’t that John _really_ minded—but he minded a little and sometimes when he was tired from working in the boring surgery he minded quite a bit but was he working today? What days did he work? What day was it?  
  
He logged out of his email, cleared the browsing history, and carefully placed the laptop on the desk.  
  
His eyes were blurry and his chest hurt and he wanted to be putting the laptop into John’s hand instead.  
  
He wanted John to come home.  
  
*  
  
“I suppose I could come look,” he sighed. “Text me the address.” He ended the call and tossed his mobile carelessly onto the sofa. John glanced over at him; he was watching a programme about PTSD and was annoyed at the interruption. The detective shuffled over to his coat and shrugged into it, not bothering with his scarf. His mobile chimed; the address he had requested, no doubt.  
  
“Do you want me to come?” John offered insincerely. He had gotten into a bit of an argument at the surgery with one of the nurses and was in a foul mood.  
  
“Not necessary. Idiotically simple problem.”  
  
“Already solved it, then?”  
  
“Mmm. Probably.” He scooped up his mobile, shoved it into his pocket, and headed out.  
  
“Make sure you tell them your fee!” John called over his shoulder.  
  
*  
  
John looked up as Sherlock came into the sitting room. He had heard him coming up the stairs, realising with some concern that the detective was walking unusually slowly. He glanced at the doctor before dropping a bag onto the coffee table and doffing his coat.  
  
“You okay?” the doctor asked, frowning.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“How did it go?”  
  
The head of dark curls tipped towards the bag. “I’ve got to prove that some… woman was in a particular restaurant and burned the sleeve of her blouse by reaching over a candle on the table.”  
  
“Why?” John was concerned at the lacklustre tone. He usually loved experiments like that.  
  
“Wife claims she was visiting a sick friend and burned it making soup or something for her. Husband claims she was having dinner with her lover and burned it in the restaurant.”  
  
“So you’ve got in there…?”  
  
“Blouse. Candles from the restaurant. I might need some assistance replicating the stirring of soup.”  
  
“Never done that before?” John smiled gently. Sherlock didn’t really seem to be in a teasing mood, but he wasn’t sure how else to approach him.  
  
“You have more experience.” He tried to smile back—John could see him trying—but it was a failed endeavour.  
  
*  
  
John hung up his coat and glanced around himself. The floor was covered with newspapers and there was an odd odour—well, odder than usual—floating through the room.  
  
So, nothing had changed since that morning.  
  
He made his way carefully across the room (no telling what was under any particular sheet of paper) and opened the windows with impatient jerks. They had been open when he left for the surgery. Idiot.  
  
“Sherlock?” he called as he headed down the hallway to his mate’s bedroom. “You all right?” He pushed open the partially closed door and stepped into the darkened room. “I told you that burning—well, melting—that horrid blouse would make you ill. Why in God’s name did you shut the windows again?” There was no response from the blanket-draped lump on the bed. He frowned. “Hey,” he said a bit more loudly, “are you okay?” He placed a hand on what he presumed was a shoulder.  
  
“Mmm… John?” The detective’s voice was raspy; strained.  
  
“You need some water and some fresh air, my friend,” he stated.  
  
“Head hurts.”  
  
“I’m not surprised. Do you want something for it?” He moved across the room and opened the window, then came around to the other side of the bed so he could see the younger man’s face. “Oh… God, Sherlock. Nothing’s going to stay down, is it?”  
  
Sherlock’s face was a horrible grey colour and he was sweating.  
  
“Toilet?” he offered instead. “Come on.”  
  
*  
  
For once, Sherlock did not put up a fight when John suggested that it was time for bed. After he had gotten him away from the toilet and cleaned up, he had pulled him out into the sitting room and pretended not to notice when he had flinched while passing through the kitchen.  
  
Instead, he had encouraged the thin man to sit and watch something particularly idiotic while he tidied up the room. He hadn’t bothered offering him anything to eat, but he did manage to get him to take a few sips of heavily-sugared tea.  
  
Finally, he had intimated that it was time for the younger man to go to bed, and was surprised when he was taken up on his idea.  
  
The next morning, he crept out to work quietly, not wanting to disturb his mate, and when he had gotten home he was almost delighted to see that the detective had migrated to his chair with a book.  
  
*   
  
“What the hell are you doing?” John stared in absolute shock as his flatmate, who had been trying to read, suddenly ripped several pages out of his book, crumpled them, and threw them viciously to the floor.  
  
“It’s riddled with errors. Doesn’t anyone know how to punctuate?”  
  
John stared at him. “Are you serious?”  
  
“Of course I’m serious! When am I not?”  
  
John considered that for a few seconds. “All right. Wrong question,” he admitted. “But why not just correct it like you usually do?”  
  
“Couldn’t find a pencil,” the younger man admitted.  
  
“So you decided to destroy… oi! That’s one of my books! Shit, Sherlock! Have you no respect _at all_ for other people’s property?” He stalked over and grabbed the mangled book, smoothing out a few pages before closing it and holding it tightly to his chest.  
  
Sherlock shrugged. Disarmed, he had apparently lost interest. He slumped into his chair.  
  
“You all right?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
*  
  
John pursed his lips. He wasn’t the slightest bit happy about anything at that moment. Not about the awkwardness with Sarah at work. Not about the lack of interesting cases.  
  
Especially not with Sherlock’s attitude.  
  
There was definitely something wrong.  
  
*  
  
 _Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end_ … some of the first words Sherlock had ever spoken to him echoed and reverberated and shook him somewhere inside. He had not been exaggerating in the slightest, and John wished fervently that he had paid more attention to that remark sooner. Damn.  
  
Sherlock was still on the sofa, curled up, his back to the room. The biscuits and tea John had left on the coffee table for him that morning were still there; the tea cold and congealed. He hung up his coat and cleared his throat. “Sherlock?” he ventured. The detective hadn’t bathed, dressed, eaten, or slept at all in the past three days. He had barely moved from the sofa—not reading or speaking. The most John had been able to get out of him was a shake of his head when he offered him—for what felt like the hundredth time—a cup of tea. And now there wasn’t even that to indicate that Sherlock was aware of his presence.  
  
“We have to talk about it, Sherlock. I’m really worried about you.” He moved the untouched dishes, sat on the coffee table, and put a gentle hand on his flatmate’s shoulder.  
  
It was shaking.   
  
John leaned over, carefully rolling the thin man toward himself.  
  
Oh, God. Sherlock was crying.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around him. “We’ll fix this.”  
  
“Go away…” His voice was rough; broken.  
  
“Nope. Not going anywhere.”  
  
*  
  
“So much drama. Why can’t he just get over himself?”  
  
“Harry! Depression doesn’t work that way. You know that,” John muttered. The conversation was making his head hurt. He had been meaning to call her just to say that he wouldn’t be making their planned dinner together, and all his stuttered excuses hadn’t satisfied her, so he had finally told her the truth: Sherlock was deeply depressed, and he didn’t want to leave him alone.  
  
“Oh, please. Everyone gets depressed once in a while,” his sister huffed.  
  
“Everyone gets sad once in a while. That’s not the same thing.”  
  
“What does he have to be depressed about? You said he makes loads of money. That should cheer him up.”  
  
John raked his hand down his face. Had she really just said that? “He doesn’t need ‘cheering up’ and I’m fairly sure that making ‘loads of money’ isn’t helping him,” he responded through gritted teeth.  
  
“How can you stand it? He sounds like the most selfish man alive.”  
  
“He’s not selfish. Yes, he can be self-centred, but that’s not the same thing.”  
  
“Oh, God, Johnny. Please don’t tell me you’ve found another ‘baby bird’ to nurse back to health.” John could almost hear his sister rolling her eyes.  
  
“I don’t do that!” he protested. He pressed a finger to that vein in his temple—the one that only Harry could make throb that way.  
  
“Of course you do. There were those boys back in school—the gay ones. You got into how many fights protecting them? And that girl in secondary—the one with… what was it? Anorexia. How you got her to go to her parents and into counselling. Didn’t she end up in some rehab?”  
  
“Beth? I can’t believe you’re bringing up Beth. Yes, she was anorexic and apparently no one else was helping her because she was barely six stone by the time they got her into that clinic. If I hadn’t—”  
  
“Who else was there? Wasn’t there someone in med school? What was his name? Hugh? And then all your broken soldier boys, of course,” she taunted. “Face it. Sherlock’s just another project—another ‘fix-it’ for you so you’ll feel good about yourself. Mr Marvellous. ‘Isn’t that John Watson such a good friend?’ ‘So noble.’ ‘Such a dedicated doctor.’”  
  
“Stop it,” John said quietly.  
  
“Why? Hitting too close to home? Is that why you don’t talk about me on your stupid blog? Because I’m a failed project? Poor Little John couldn’t fix Big Sister Harry—how embarrassing.”  
  
“Harry, please stop.”  
  
“What’s more embarrassing—that I’m gay or that I drink?”  
  
“You know that I’m fine with you being gay, and I’m asking you to stop.”  
  
“No, John. Why don’t _you_ stop? Why not stop trying to save the world? Oh, and yeah, I know you’re fine with me being gay because it’s pretty obvious that y—”  
  
John ended the call. The force of the impact against the wall popped his mobile’s sliding display askew.  
  
*  
  
“Can you manage a shower?” A slight shake of a tousled head. “I think it will help.”  
  
“Too… much work.”  
  
“Okay. How about something to drink? I’ll get it for you. All right?” John didn’t wait for an answer; just marched into the kitchen.  
  
When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was sitting up. His elbows were on his knees and his face was in his hands, but he was mostly vertical. “Good job,” the doctor affirmed. He knew that even that simple movement had taken a huge effort. “Come on now. Have a little something to drink.”  
  
Sherlock slowly raised his head.  
  
“Please. Just two sips.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him, anguish in his eyes.  
  
“I’ll hold the glass for you. Would that help?”  
  
The slightest of nods.  
  
“It’s all right, Sherlock. I know you don’t want to feel like this.” He sat next to him, wrapped his mate’s long fingers around the glass of water, and helped him raise it to his lips. He drank about a quarter of it before twisting his head away. John lowered the glass.  
  
“You…” he mumbled, almost unperceptively.  
  
“Me what?” John smiled at him gently.  
  
“You’re right.”  
  
“I’m right about something? How nice.” He offered the glass again and Sherlock took another sip before shaking his head. John took it away. “What am I right about?” he encouraged.  
  
“I don’t like feeling like this.”  
  
“I know that you don’t.”  
  
“But you seem to understand… I don’t _choose_ to feel this way.”  
  
“Choose? Of course you don’t.” John put the glass on the coffee table.  
  
“You don’t blame me.”  
  
“What? No! Of course not. Why would I?” John demanded in puzzlement.  
  
“Other…” Sherlock took a deep breath; all the talking was exhausting. “… people. They think I do it…” He paused, trying to concentrate. “For attention.”  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. That’s awful. No. I know you don’t do this on purpose.”  
  
“Thank… you.”  
  
“How about some music?” He rose and grabbed his laptop, bringing up the music website he had discovered.  
  
*  
  
“Hello?” John spoke softly. Sherlock had just—finally—drifted off in his chair and John was praying that the mobile ringing didn’t waken him. It had been forty-eight hours since he had slept.  
  
“You two all right?”  
  
John felt his heart jump in his chest. It was DI Lestrade. “Uh…” he responded brilliantly as he retreated to the hallway, keeping his voice low.  
  
“What’s going on?” the DI demanded.  
  
“He’s… not all right.” John admitted. Lestrade had known him longer. Maybe he had some insight? Advice?  
  
“What’s happening?”  
  
“Um… he’s depressed. Clinically.”  
  
“What’s he been doing?”  
  
“Not talking. Not eating. Not moving.”  
  
The sigh, even through the tiny speaker of the mobile, was so deep as to be an almost physical thing. “Damn. I knew he was off. Look,” he offered. “Do you want me to come over?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”  
  
*  
  
The doctor put a finger across his lips and the older man nodded and entered as quietly as he could. Sherlock was out cold, somehow curling all six feet of him up to fit into the chair and breathing deeply. Lestrade had seen him like that a few times and he still didn’t know how the man could sleep like that—but then he also didn’t understand how the same man, when exhausted beyond comprehension, could not sleep when tucked up in a comfortable bed—in the spare room of a certain Yarder.  
  
John motioned for him to follow, and they moved down the short hallway and into Sherlock’s bedroom. The bed was unslept in but there was clothing strewn around, and several books were tossed onto the bed and floor.   
  
“So he’s been like this before?” the shorter man demanded, barely pausing to shut the door.  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade replied reluctantly.  
  
“More than once?”  
  
“… yes.” He hesitated. Was this the right thing to do—to confide in the flatmate? More than a flatmate, he reminded himself—a doctor. Maybe he was just the right person _to_ tell. Couldn’t make things worse, could it? “Couple times a year, when he’s not working,” he supplied unhappily.  
  
“Why the _hell_ didn’t anyone tell me?”  
  
Oh. That was an interesting reaction. He had been expecting something a bit more… clinical. Or sympathetic. Or medical. Instead, the short man had gotten rather shouty. “Doctor Watson, it’s been… how long? I hardly know you.”  
  
The doctor frowned at him for a second before his expression softened. Of course, he was right—they hardly knew each other. Lestrade hadn’t been involved in the banker/investor/smuggler mess. The inspector on that case had been the outrageously youthful and condescending Dimmock.  
  
The silver-haired man slumped onto the bed. He briefly let his head fall into his hands before looking up. The compact man in front of him was a contradiction—military bearing, but with such an expressive face that the DI felt like he was experiencing every emotion ever noted by a human being, all at once—but somehow it was a reassuring mixture. His concern for Sherlock was palpable. That was good. Sherlock needed someone to care for him like that.  
  
Oh, no. That’s right. Watson wasn’t… at least he said he wasn’t.  
  
So, he cared for him like what? A father? A brother? A friend?  
  
The DI sighed again and began to explain. “I really can’t tell you much. He’s usually only around when he’s working, but there’s been a few times, after a case, when I went to see him—follow-up, you know? And he’d be just like that—flat out.”  
  
“What did you do for him?”  
  
“What could I do? He won’t go to a therapist or even a regular doctor.”  
  
John sighed. He knew that the DI was right; it wasn’t as if they could just physically drag him to see someone who could help. And even if they got him there—or someone to him—he was not even remotely likely to talk.  
  
Of course, he was a doctor. Depression was a medical condition. He suspected that medication would help his mate even if he wasn’t open to therapy. But how to get him to take anything? John could barely get him to eat a full meal.  
  
A very brief, very odd image of Mrs Hudson grinding up tablets in a mortar and pestle and adding the resulting powder to her (absolutely fantastic) chocolate mousse appeared in his mind’s eye. Would it give it a bitter undertaste?  
  
Good lord, his life had become odd.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

He spent most of the next few days coaxing his mate to try to eat. Desperate, he was offering him only the things that he _knew_ the thin man would consume—most of it sweet and smooth, like sorbet and fruit, but also chips, and (John had always thought it was odd for someone so finicky) sashimi.  
  
He knew that Sherlock wasn’t sleeping regularly; each night he had checked on him numerous times to find him tossing and turning, lying rigidly on his bed, or much more often in the sitting room attempting to read or otherwise distract himself. He was exhausted; he wanted to sleep—John could tell just by the desperation in his eyes—but he seemed incapable. Sometimes, though, he would succumb—that was always in the sitting room, John noticed, and always when he was there. So maybe being alone—isolated in his bedroom or alone in the flat—was distressing.  
  
Sometimes, Sherlock would talk—just a few words—but for the most part he was silent; focused inward. John would switch on the telly and deliberately find something that he knew would irritate his mate; to invoke some sort of reaction. Any sort of reaction.  
  
*  
  
John hated leaving him alone, but he had to work. Mrs Hudson would check on him periodically, phoning or texting the doctor to report on what she had found him doing—or not doing.  
  
*  
  
Martha Hudson slipped back into her flat, shaking her head. She knew that Sherlock was ill and that it wasn’t his fault, but did he have to be so rude? The last time she had checked on him, instead of finding him lying on the sofa, as she usually did—sometimes staring blankly across the room but much more often with his face buried in the cushions—she had discovered him standing at the large desk, scrambling through the mess of papers and books and letters and photos covering it.  
  
He had caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye and turned, his eyes wide and his jaw tight.  
  
“Get OUT!” he had roared.  
  
The file folder he had thrown at her had fortunately gone only a few feet before its contents spilled out and it fluttered harmlessly to the floor.  
  
She had retreated, half frightened—what if he had thrown the knife that was currently ruining her mantlepiece? —and half livid. She was only trying to help him.  
  
She dimly heard some piece of furniture or other being overturned as she retreated to her kitchen, plucked her mobile from her pocket, and phoned John.  
  
*  
  
“No, of course you’re not going back up there. I’m so sorry, Mrs H. I didn’t mean for you to be in any danger.”  
  
“It’s the most he’s moved in days—maybe that’s a good sign?” she responded tremulously. “Maybe he’s starting to perk up a bit.”  
  
“Yeah… maybe. I’ll come down and we can talk this evening.” John rang off and slid his mobile into his pocket, considering the situation. Activity was one thing—even if it took him all evening to put the sitting room to rights. Violence—lashing out like that—was another. _Was_ agitation like that a good sign?  
  
*  
  
Where the hell was it? he raged to himself, furiously digging through the debris he had swept onto the floor from the cluttered desk. Someone—probably that meddling, fussing landlady of theirs—had been interfering with his stacks. He had explained, over and over, that he had a system, and that no one—not even John—should disarrange his things.  
  
God! Why did everyone have to interfere with him all the time? Constantly—nagging and pushing and complaining and questioning and challenging and arguing and commanding him—  
  
He especially hated it when John commanded him—he muttered under this breath now, imitating the older man. “Eat, Sherlock. Sleep, Sherlock. Take a bath, Sherlock,” he hissed, mockingly. “Ordering me around like I’m some sort of...” He paused. Some sort of what? Was it ensign? He knew there was some sort of difference in terminology regarding rank between the army in general and fusiliers and it was one of those things that he didn’t care about in the slightest but that mattered to John.  
  
Would John be disappointed that he couldn’t remember?  
  
Would John be upset about the papers all over the floor?  
  
Did it matter? Why did it matter? What was the matter with him?  
  
He bellowed—a meaningless, wordless sound—and slammed both hands onto the bare desktop so hard that his hands stung  
  
and that wasn’t enough and he swung his right hand hard at the side of the desk  
  
and that wasn’t enough either even after the fifth impact  
  
and he stumbled as he ploughed through the papers covering the floor not caring if anything crumbled or tore kicked the mess out of his way not pausing even when his bare foot encountered the leg of the small table next to John’s chair and he kicked it out of his way the pain must have been intense but it seemed so distant he barely registered it the pain in his hand was now a sort of burning never mind that had he dropped a beaker or something on the kitchen floor he was dimly aware of a sharper cleaner pain now but couldn’t be bothered to look down kept moving kept heading towards relief desperately needed release needed it bathroom or bedroom bathroom hard tile cold tile yes bathroom was better cleaner colder harder  
  
sharper  
  
*  
  
He had called Angelo and asked him to put together something for him to pick up on his way home, being careful to ensure that he sounded calm—normal. He was just asking Angelo for something to take home, right?  
  
He felt like his arms and legs were wrapped in concrete. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and marched into the restaurant.  
  
*  
  
The silence was somehow more distressing than the crashing about had been, but Mrs Hudson didn’t dare go back up. John would be home soon, wouldn’t he?  
  
John would take care of her dear boy.  
  
*  
  
The generous, ebullient restauranteur had everything packed up and ready for him, his concern palpable. “You take such good care of him,” he had confided as he handed everything to John. “You’re very good for him.”  
  
“Obviously not,” John had responded bitterly, accepting the food. “I honestly don’t know what to do anymore.” He sighed. “I’ll be in touch. And listen… sometimes, can you…” John didn’t know how to ask.  
  
“Whatever he wants—whatever you want—any time—I’ll have one of the lads bring it ‘round. Just phone me.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
The walk back to the flat was short, and John took it briskly. He fumbled with the large bag of food and his latch key, then was startled upon ascending their stairs to discover that both doors leading from the hallway into the flat were locked. Cursing, he balanced the food on his arm and fished for the door key; he so rarely used it that it felt odd in his fingers.  
  
Finally inside, he dropped the food on the kitchen table before glancing down the hallway, sighing as he glimpsed the closed bedroom door. He walked down to it and knocked. “Sherlock? Can I come in?”  
  
There was no response.  
  
He opened the door. The room looked empty... no. There he was. John spotted one knee peeking out by the foot of Sherlock’s bed. He moved towards it. “Sherlock?” he said again. He rounded the foot of the bed.  
  
Yes, there he was. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the footboard of his bed. He didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge any awareness that his flatmate was there.  
  
“Hey. What’s going on?” the doctor asked gently, squatting down in front of him. He put a hand out to balance himself against the polished wood.  
  
Sherlock flinched.  
  
“It’s all right. You’re all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see how you’re doing,” he murmured soothingly. “Can I touch you? I just want to take your pulse, okay?”  
  
No response.  
  
John settled himself on his knees, pushed back his jumper sleeve so he would see his watch, and carefully took a thin wrist in his other hand. The pale skin was ice cold. He counted; calculated. “Can you look at me?” he asked, putting the cold hand down carefully and slowly moving his hand up to his friend’s face. His eyes looked awful—red, bloodshot, dried tears clumping the lashes together. The doctor sighed. “What happened today?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock blinked and shook his head.  
  
“Mrs H phoned and said you… were agitated. The sitting room’s a disaster. Did something happen?”  
  
A small shrug; the slightest exhalation.  
  
“You’re cold. Do you want to get off the floor? Come on.” John rose and reached a hand down.  
  
Another slight shake of a head.  
  
“I’ve brought dinner from Angelo’s. Come out and have some with me.”  
  
A sound between a moan and a sigh.   
  
“It’s just pasta and shrimp in a cream sauce—you _like_ that.”  
  
“Leave me alone, John,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.  
  
“I left you alone all day, and you destroyed the sitting room and frightened poor Mrs Hudson half to death. I don’t think that leaving you alone any longer is a good idea.”  
  
“Please…” Sherlock gave him an anguished look and then dropped his eyes to his lap.  
  
“You don’t have to eat—I’m not going to force you. I just… I’m really worried about you, Sherlock. At least get off the floor—do you want to get into bed? You’re cold. Or come out to the sofa—use my afghan? We don’t have to talk. I just don’t think that you being alone is a good idea.”  
  
“Bed,” he mumbled.  
  
“Yeah? Come on. Up.”  
  
The thin man allowed John to catch his hand and pull him up. He wobbled and gasped.  
  
“What’s wrong?” John demanded. “Did you hurt yourself?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He pulled back the covers. “Sit down.”   
  
Sherlock gingerly lowered himself onto the mattress. He was clearly in pain, but equally obvious was his desire to hide the cause from the doctor’s eyes. John decided to let it go for the moment; for all he knew, his legs had simply fallen asleep while he was seated on the hard floor.  
  
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.  
  
“No. Go away.”  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“I’m off the floor. Isn’t that what you wanted? Now leave me _alone_.”  
  
“Do you want something to eat—?”  
  
“I said,” he hissed in response, “ _leave me alone_.”  
  
“This isn’t helping, is it?” the older man finally sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really am. Look, I’ll leave you alone, all right? I’ll put your dinner in the fridge and you can heat it up later If you want it, but I’m not going to force you.”  
  
He turned and walked slowly out of his mate’s room, shutting the door behind himself. His stomach churned.  
  
This was more than a bit not okay.  
  
*  
  
What the hell had just happened? Sherlock glared at the shut door before falling back onto his pillows. He was feeling—if he was honest with himself—a bit off. His hands were shaking and his head ached and his hand throbbed and his chest was tight and his legs burned. He was not entirely sure, but he thought that seeing spots was not a good sign.  
  
He focused on the ceiling and tried to move beyond it. Transport, he told himself. It’s just transport. He was in charge. His mind was—not his idiotic body. He turned his head and peered at the shut door again.  
  
What was going to happen next? John was not an idiot. That, taken on its own, was actually rather nice. However, his particular type of intelligence was starting to cause problems.  
  
John was smart about _people_.  
  
Feelings. Emotions. Motivations. Behaviours. All those things that Sherlock himself was aware of; could identify and even emulate—but that he didn’t always really understand. Saying that a man stabbed his wife in a fit of jealousy was one thing. Having insight into how that actually felt—why jealousy was such an intense emotion that it could drive a man to stab his wife—that was totally beyond him.  
  
He knew that John was noticing _things_.  
  
The problem was that the things John was noticing were the things about himself that he was _aware_ were queer, and upsetting, and occasionally illegal, but he couldn’t for the life of him say _why_ they were so problematic. He could identify them—those behaviours of his that often got him into trouble of one sort or another—but he didn’t understand why people got so up in arms about some of them.  
  
But John had his reasons and he was noticing things and it was making it harder than usual to hide them and it was all becoming frustrating and distressing and rather exhausting.  
  
It would drive him mad one day, wouldn’t it? _That_ would be difficult to hide.  
  
Hiding things from John. Right. He was doing a rather awful job at it at the moment, wasn’t he? And there was more. He was discovering something rather odd—rather unexpected—about himself.  
  
He was finding that he did not always _want_ to hide things from John.  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the doctor snarled, glaring at the sleek black car that had pulled up alongside him. He was just leaving the surgery. He was tired and grumpy and just wanted to get home to Sherlock.  
  
The driver hopped out and opened the nearest door for him, his manner aloof. Just another day at work for him. John wondered how many people Mycroft kidnapped a day.  
  
Sighing heavily, John slid into the car. He let himself sink back into the luxurious seat. If he was going to be kidnapped, he might as well be comfortable. He gave the man seated next to him a glance, then let his head drop back so he could stare at the ceiling of the car. “What?” he said flatly.  
  
“You know _what_ , Doctor,” the elder Holmes brother hissed. “How bad is he?”  
  
With an effort, he lifted his head and turned towards the voice. “Bad. But you know that, don’t you?”  
  
“I know he hasn’t left the flat in days. I know that your purchases of his safe—his favourite—foods have tripled. I know that he hasn’t been taking cases or updating his website.”  
  
“So, what do you want from me?”  
  
“Is he taking care of his personal hygiene? Sleeping? Speaking?”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“If I’m going to spy on him for you, I expect to be paid.”  
  
“This is not a situation to be taken lightly,” the government man huffed. “Your levity is not appreciated.”  
  
“I’m not making a joke. Sherlock has a right to his privacy, as do I. He is my friend and it is my flat and if you want to know what is going on there, you once offered me money to spy on your brother, and I am now taking you up on your offer.”  
  
“Very well,” the posh man sighed. “But you will be earning it, Doctor.”  
  
“Fine,” John nodded firmly. “My first report: Sherlock’s going through a bad patch. He’s not bathing, or sleeping, or speaking. But he’s not using, either. I’m keeping an eye on him, and if I think he’s in actual physical danger of any sort, you can be sure that I’m calling 999. Otherwise, you know that until he is willing to go into therapy, there is very little anyone can do except watch him… correction. There is very little else that _I_ can do for him. He absolutely hates that you keep him under surveillance the way you do. I am not going to mention our little chat, and you are not going to try to contact him until I say it’s all right. Good enough? Have I earned my fee?”  
  
“Doctor—”  
  
“Shut up, Mycroft. Have your driver take me home. Now.”  
  
Mycroft Holmes scowled—during their first conversation he had seen that Dr John Watson had, for some reason, allied himself with his brother, but until that moment he hadn’t realised the depth of that loyalty.  
  
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, he reflected. It had been a long time since his brother had had an ally like that.  
  
Still, not joining the doctor when they pulled up in front of 221B was one of the most difficult things the government man had ever done.  
  
*  
  
The appearance of his flatmate in the kitchen had both startled and alarmed him. He looked dreadful. “Hey,” he managed in greeting, trying to sound casual.  
  
“Mmm…” Sherlock’s head was down. He had already been avoiding food before his self-imposed exile and now, two days later, he was beyond thin. Beyond pale.  
  
“It’s good to see you out of your room.”  
  
Gaunt. Almost translucent.  
  
Hell, it was good to see him walking.  
  
Barely.  
  
“Come sit. Tea?”  
  
He almost fell into the chair. “Yes, please,” he mumbled.  
  
True to his word, John had been keeping an eye on his mate—with help from Mrs Hudson—so he knew that he had emerged from his bedroom a few times over the past two days. It was always when he was out, and from what he could tell, the sojourns had consisted mainly of using the loo (and seeing him now, clearly not for a bath or a shave) and to retrieve things—his laptop; some books.  
  
Not his violin.  
  
“How about an orange?” he offered.  
  
He was thrilled when his mate nodded.  
  
*  
  
“We don’t have to talk about it,” the doctor said, breaking the silence. They had not been talking—since Sherlock had emerged from his bedroom a few hours earlier, dishevelled and weak, the few words they had exchanged hadn’t really said much of anything.  
  
No, John corrected himself as he considered this. Those few words had temporarily elated him, focused as they were on his friend accepting and slowly consuming half a segmented orange and some tea. But as soon as John had turned his back to put the dishes in the sink, Sherlock had risen from the table and made his way to his chair, falling heavily into it. “Conversation” over.  
  
“Newspaper’s there if you want it,” the doctor had called out and tried not to make it too obvious that he was watching in concern as one shaking hand stretched out for that morning’s paper, which he had discarded on the floor.  
  
He had gotten through the washing up as quickly as he could, joining Sherlock in the sitting room with his hands still wet. The detective’s eyes were skimming the front page of the paper, but he clearly wasn’t absorbing even the headlines.  
  
“Dull,” the thin man had grunted, handing him the paper. He reached down along the side of his chair and produced a book, which he rather pointedly opened and immediately buried his nose in.  
  
Half an hour of nothing but the sound of flipping pages was enough for John. He had lowered the newspaper and was observing the detective, who was clearly making a point of focusing intently on his book. Finally, he hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, and made his tentative comment.  
  
Sherlock looked up sharply from his book. “What do you mean?” he demanded in some disbelief.  
  
“Whatever’s been bothering you, I don’t think that talking about it is going to help. You don’t like talking about how you’re feeling, and I don’t think that forcing you is a good idea.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock looked slightly sceptical.  
  
“Of course, if you _want_ to talk about it, I am more than happy to listen,” John added.  
  
“That sounds more like you,” the detective remarked, not unkindly.  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“Despite what you said, you _do_ want to talk about it. It’s all right, John. Everyone has always wanted to talk about it—or more precisely to get _me_ to talk about it.”  
  
“Has it ever worked?” the doctor wondered.  
  
“Not really—unless you count shouting.”  
  
John smiled sadly. “At least you expressed how you were feeling,” he pointed out.  
  
“I wasn’t the one shouting.”  
  
“All right then.”  
  
*  
  
He fell asleep curled up in his chair. John draped a blanket over him, shut the lights, and crept up to his bedroom.  
  
*  
  
“Tell you what. Why don’t you shower and shave and we can get some dinner?” John offered casually the following evening.  
  
His mate considered this. They had had a quiet—a peaceful—day. That morning Sherlock had managed some coffee and a piece of toast and John had ducked into his bedroom to change the sheets. John had updated his blog and Sherlock had had him laughing at his (completely serious) comments about the responses. “I had no idea there were so many words for ‘idiot’,” he giggled, and had been thrilled when Sherlock had smiled shyly in return.  
  
Now he wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling, either. “Very well,” he agreed solemnly, rising and heading towards the bathroom.  
  
*  
  
“Penne a la vodka for me,” he requested, handing the menu back to their waiter. “He’ll have fettucine in a white wine sauce.”  
  
Sherlock wouldn’t touch his salad. John made a mental note of its ingredients.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

John skilfully flipped the cheddar and tomato sandwiches he had in the pan. They were sizzling nicely in the butter. He was rather proud of his technique—nice and melted inside and perfectly browned outside.  
  
He poured a glass of milk, opened a beer for himself, and slid the sandwiches onto plates.  
  
“Come eat,” he called out. Sherlock obediently rose from the desk and joined him in the kitchen.  
  
“This is very nice, John,” his flatmate commented. John noticed that he had pulled the crusts off the hot sandwich and had torn it into small pieces, but bite by bite, he was actually eating it. He also seemed to like the milk.  
  
And the point goes to—Doctor John Watson. He congratulated himself. This was three meals in one day that he had successfully gotten Sherlock to share. Breakfast—bacon butties from Speedy’s—had been devoured almost greedily. Lunch had been chef’s salads—but John had cleverly not mixed up the greens with anything. He had sliced up and put out on small plates some nice ham, hard-cooked eggs, and two different cheeses, put a small bowl of chopped walnuts on the table along with a choice of two dressings, and presented them with bowls of just greens.  
  
“Feeling lazy—make your own,” he had commented off-handedly.  
  
It was fine that Sherlock had chosen to eat all the ingredients separately and ignored the nuts. He ate, which was all that John was striving for. John made a mental note of the dressing he had selected.  
  
*  
  
“Doesn’t anyone know how to spell _anything_?” Sherlock griped, scowling at the monitor of John’s laptop. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the laptop was on John’s lap, and to peer intently at it the way he was doing meant that he was bent over, his chin nearly on John’s shoulder.  
  
John giggled. Sherlock’s breath tickled his ear and his comment tickled his sensibilities. They were looking at responses to John’s blog about their most recent case. Sherlock had already expressed his distaste, but now apparently felt obliged (or perhaps entitled) to add commentary.  
  
“You are such a dickhead.”  
  
Sherlock considered this for a second as he straightened up. “Yes, probably,” he agreed solemnly, and then his deep chuckle made a pleasant counterpoint to John’s tenor giggle.  
  
*  
  
“Come on, Sherlock. The stuff in this kitchen probably qualifies as toxic waste.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“I swear I saw something move in that petri dish.”  
  
No response.  
  
“If you don’t come tidy this up, I’m going to toss every single one… and everything in those beakers is going down the drain.”  
  
“Isn’t dumping toxic waste down the drain… isn’t there one of those law things about that?”  
  
John couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Get in here, you wanker, and help me clean up—and then how about we go out for some ice cream?”  
  
“Bribery, John? Really? Is that how you commanded your troops in Afghanistan?”  
  
“You don’t want to know how I commanded anyone in Afghanistan. Clean. Now.”  
  
Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen and, with a heavy sigh, began to (gingerly) gather up the multitude of malodorous petri dishes.  
  
*  
  
“Is that my laptop?” John demanded.   
  
Oh, lovely, wonderful, predictable John. Sherlock smiled to himself. “Possibly, yes,” he replied, offering it back to the doctor.  
  
“I’m getting a bit tired of changing the password,” his flatmate commented. He didn’t sound terribly annoyed.  
  
“The highlight of my week is figuring out the new one,” the detective replied cheekily, and the doctor laughed.  
  
“You git,” he chuckled, accepting the device. He settled into his chair and began checking his email.  
  
*  
  
“Well, you’re chipper,” Mrs Hudson remarked a bit suspiciously.  
  
“Why do you say that?” the dark-haired man frowned.  
  
“Well, dear, you’ve actually cleared off part of the desk.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, I’ve lost the pool.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yes, dear. We’ve been betting on how long it would take you to find that flattened spider.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“John, me, Mrs Turner, Mr Chatterjee, a few boys from the café… erm… oh, that plumber—such a nice man…” Sherlock stared at her in confusion, making her giggle. “Supposed to be so observant and you had no idea that I planted that rather enormous spider under that mess over a month ago?”  
  
He blinked, completely baffled.  
  
“I suppose we’re all just lucky that it wasn’t a mouse—that wouldn’t have been fair to poor John.”  
  
She shook her head and made her way back downstairs, leaving Sherlock utterly bemused. Should he be offended? Should he protest? What should he protest? Which was worse—that his possibly _somewhat_ untidy domestic arrangements had apparently been common knowledge up and down the entire street or that his landlady had just admitted to planting a dead arachnid under one of his (perfectly organised—like strata of a rock outcropping) stacks of papers? He was fairly sure that was not the usual behaviour of landladies. Was it?  
  
He tackled the next stack of papers, wondering if there was perhaps a pressed bee waiting for him at the bottom.  
  
He hoped not.  
  
He liked bees.  
  
*  
  
“Have you always been so open-minded?”  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about? Oh, give me those! How does a person get to be your age and not know how to fold towels properly?”  
  
“About homosexuality.”  
  
“Where did that come from?” Sherlock shrugged and John shrugged back, considering. “Well, yeah. I guess so. There were two boys back in school who were out—they were a couple. I didn’t see anything wrong with it at all, but they got teased—bullied—a lot.”  
  
“Did you defend them?” Sherlock smiled shyly.  
  
“There might have been one or two ‘incidents,’” John admitted, chuckling.  
  
“Was this before your sister came out?”  
  
“Yeah. Poor Harry. The rest of the family took it hard. I mean, it was no surprise to me. I’d seen her with other girls—caught them more than once out behind the garden shed.”  
  
“And that didn’t bother you?”  
  
“I was much more upset that they’d been smoking.”  
  
“Always the doctor, hmm?”  
  
John nodded, triumphantly adding the last towel to the clean stack.  
  
“Speaking of, could I—”  
  
“Absolutely not! You can have a patch.”  
  
Sherlock pouted but allowed the doctor to apply one (only one, you idiot!) patch to his arm.  
  
*  
  
“God, Sherlock, what is that smell?”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.” He flicked nervously through one notebook while scribbling madly in another.  
  
And then John was giggling and Sherlock was chuckling and neither one of them was terribly concerned when Mrs Hudson came flying up the stairs to complain.  
  
*  
  
“Are you mad?”  
  
“Officially? Not quite. Mummy had me tested.”  
  
John couldn’t help it. He tried to supress it, but the small smile caught Sherlock’s eye and he smiled the smallest bit back.  
  
“You do know that Mrs Hudson will be livid when she discovers that you’ve been baking body parts.”  
  
“So, don’t tell her,” Sherlock replied reasonably, poking delicately at the ear that was pinned neatly into a dissecting tray with a scalpel and dissecting needle.  
  
“Those are her baking sheets. She’s bound to notice that they’re missing.”  
  
“Only if they aren’t returned before…” he glanced at his watch and grimaced. “…five minutes ago.”  
  
“I don’t think they really should be returned, do you?” John replied doubtfully, looking at the objects in the sink. “I mean, no matter how clean we get them, I don’t think her baking biscuits on sheets that have had… uh…,” he looked over the collection of parts lined up on the table, “three right-hand ears, a thumb, and two pairs of kneecaps on them.”  
  
“Why not? Isn’t it the same thing as baking… erm… pork?” He made a note and moved to the next ear.  
  
“Not quite, no.”  
  
The front door opened and shut. Mrs Hudson was back.  
  
“Damn,” Sherlock sighed. “Too late.”  
  
*  
  
John answered his mobile in some surprise; it was DI Lestrade.  
  
“Yeah?” he asked hesitantly.  
  
“Erm… listen. Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering how Sherlock was doing.”  
  
“Oh! I think he’s doing better. He _is_ doing better. Thanks for asking.”  
  
“Right. Good.”  
  
John frowned. “Anything wrong?” he asked. “Do you have a case for him?”  
  
“Actually, yeah, I do. Can I come by?”  
  
*  
  
John had phoned the surgery to say that he wouldn’t be in so he could accompany them. He would not have sworn to it, but he thought that he caught a small smile from his flatmate as he did so.  
  
Now he and DI Lestrade stood as far out of the detective’s way as they could, which wasn’t easy as the thin man dashed and skulked and swooped around the crime scene. John wasn’t entirely positive, but at one point he was fairly certain that Sherlock had spun around on purpose, just to make his ridiculous coat billow out.  
  
Back in business, then.  
  



	10. Chapter 10

“I asked nicely—once. If I have to ask again, it won’t be so nicely.” DI Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and looked as stern as he possibly could.  
  
“I said that I didn’t take it. Why don’t you believe me?” Sherlock whined, slumped in his chair.  
  
“Because the last two times you said that, I’m fairly sure you were lying? I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.”  
  
“But I really didn’t take it this time! Damn…” he winced at his self-revelation.  
  
John covered his grin with a discrete cough.  
  
“Do you want to search me?” the consulting detective smirked, giving John a look and recovering quickly.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“So, have Anderson check again. He bagged it himself. Put it in the evidence box himself. It’s small—it could have just gotten lost in everything else.”  
  
Lestrade wavered. He was right (the arrogant bastard). That did happen sometimes. Human error. He took out his mobile, pausing before placing his call. “If you’re having me on, so help me Sherlock, I’m not letting you work with me again.”  
  
“No I’m not and yes you will,” was the petulant reply.  
  
Lestrade shot daggers at him as Anderson answered. “Yeah. No, he doesn’t have it. Why not have another look in the evidence box? Or around it. It’s small—maybe it just got wedged in somewhere. Ring me back.” He ended the call. “There. Happy?”  
  
“Yes, actually,” Sherlock grinned smugly. “But when Anderson phones back to say that he still can’t find it, tell him to check his right trouser cuff.”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
  
“Just have him check his turn-up.”  
  
“How do you know that?” Lestrade sounded half sceptical and half curious.  
  
“Do you really want to know?” Sherlock snapped back sarcastically. He was getting bored now.  
  
The DI ran his fingers through his silver hair and sighed. “No, I guess I don’t. Sorry to have bothered you,” he added drily. “See you Saturday night, John?”  
  
“Absolutely.” John waved as the man exited. “Sherlock,” he ventured when he heard the street door shut. “What was that all about?”  
  
“The hearing aid I found at the crime scene. Neither the victim nor anyone in his family wore one.”  
  
“That’s a hell of a piece of important evidence to lose—covered in DNA and with a serial number.”  
  
“Crucial,” Sherlock agreed.  
  
“How do you know that it’ll be in Anderson’s cuff?”  
  
“Do you really want to know?”  
  
“Sure?” John replied hesitantly. Sometimes Sherlock’s explanations made things more confusing rather than less.  
  
Sherlock chuckled and rose, taking up his violin. “Don’t be an idiot, John. I saw it fall in when he was boxing up all the evidence bags.”


	11. Chapter 11

Life proceeded to unfold in a way that would have been deemed positively mad by anyone else. Sherlock was mercurial; flighty. Brilliant. Amusing. Sweet. Fascinating. Infuriating. Beautiful. Mad.  
  
Sherlock’s mood, having apparently bottomed out during those dreadful few weeks, was much more stable. He was back to being the ridiculous wanker who had first greeted the doctor. John breathed a sigh of relief after every consumed meal; every interaction with other people that didn’t end in a shouting match. He turned a blind eye to the body parts (sometimes with notes from Molly Hooper—she dotted her “I’s” with hearts—of course she did) and the beakers and flasks that lived on their kitchen table.   
  
His work at the surgery was a bit predictable, but it was fine that he encountered nothing more mysterious than a rash. He had never thought he would get to the point in his life when he would welcome strep throat; the occasional infected thumb.  
  
And of course, when that got tedious, there was always a mysterious crash—a slashed throat; the occasional severed thumb.  
  
John Watson had never been this content in his entire life.  
  
*  
  
“Did you ever wonder how much after midnight you have to wait until you can feed them? Six o’clock? When the sun rises?” she wondered.  
  
“But then you’d have to protect them from the sunlight while feeding them. Seems awkward,” he giggled. “I can’t believe we’re having a serious discussion about _Gremlins_. Another drink?” he responded encouragingly.  
  
She nodded, and he turned to order them another round when his mobile rang. “Damn,” he muttered, pulling it out of his pocket. “Sorry. Need to take this. What?” he asked flatly.  
  
He listened.  
  
“No. I told you I was going out. You never listen.”  
  
He listened again, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Well, I’m sorry about that, but there’s not much I can do about it, is there?”  
  
She watched his face carefully.  
  
“Yes. _Yes_. I’m entirely confident that you can manage without me.” She smiled a bit at his tone. “Yes, you can. I laid it all out.”  
  
He frowned and so did she.  
  
“Not tonight. I am asking for _one_ night. It’s a God-damned ready-meal, Sherlock. Read the instructions—peel, stick in the micro, zap, eat. Easy peasy.”  
  
…  
  
“Yes, you can… what? No, you know it doesn’t. I wouldn’t get anything for you with… yes, there’s a list of ingredients. Yes, go ahead and read it, and you get back to me if there’s anything objectionable. I’ll be home… when I get home. Eat and go to bed!”  
  
He ended the call with a rather vicious stab of his finger.  
  
She smiled a bit nervously at him. “So… Sherlock? That’s an unusual name.”  
  
“Yeah.” He waved to get the bartender’s attention.  
  
“So, is he… your son?” she ventured. Honestly, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the caller. Someone not accustomed to being left alone, but clearly old enough to manage a ready-meal; someone at whom the man… John was his name… could swear. No, he didn’t strike her as the type to do that to a child. He had been nothing but a gentleman the entire evening.  
  
“Another round,” he requested when the bartender noticed him, smiling. It was a genuine, warm smile. He turned back to her. “No, not my son.”  
  
“So…” Dad? No, he wouldn’t call his father by name. “Brother?” she ventured. Maybe one of those special needs—  
  
“No. He’s my… uh… flatmate.”  
  
Oh, God. She had been totally wrong about him. “Oh,” she responded a bit bleakly.  
  
“Here you go.” He handed her a fresh drink and she automatically brought it to her lips.   
  
“Thanks,” she managed. Crap.  
  
Why were all the nice ones gay?  
  
*  
  
He got home shortly after closing; he had only been around the corner. He suspected that Sherlock knew where he had ended up but had (thankfully) been too lazy to come out and irritate him in person—which wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest.  
  
“Sherlock?” he called out softly as he slid off his shoes and hung up his coat. The lights in the sitting room and kitchen were out. He glanced down the hallway. Ah. Light on in Sherlock’s bedroom and the door was open. After a quick detour to use the loo, he popped his head in to be greeted by a scowl—really, he elevated “irritated” to an art form—from his flatmate. He watched as the pale man, propped up against his headboard, dropped his book and glared at him.  
  
“So, enjoyed your sex outing?” he snarled.  
  
John laughed out loud. He was in too good a mood to be bothered by the mad man’s antics. It had been unadulterated pleasure going out, having a few pints, and flirting shamelessly. “It was hardly a ‘sex outing,’ you wanker. I just went out for a few pints.”  
  
“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.  
  
“You ridiculous man,” John murmured, sitting on the bed. “Did you eat?”  
  
“I tried. It was vile.”  
  
“As long as you tried. Do you want something now?”  
  
“No,” his flatmate pouted.  
  
“All right. What are you reading?” He settled back against the headboard and allowed Sherlock to tell him all about Alan Turing and the Enigma code. World War II always did fascinate him. What would life have been like if they had shared a place during the Blitz?   
  
*  
  
He woke at about three o’clock, extracted himself from the warm bed, and trudged wearily up the stairs to his bedroom.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering what it would have been like if Sherlock and John lodged together during the Blitz, too, read “Long Ago and Far Away,” an amazing fanfic by lotherington.


	12. Chapter 12

John trudged up the stairs to Flat B, the bag of takeaway sending lovely smells through the hall. He had picked up fish and chips. “Hey,” he called softly as he entered the flat through the kitchen door. Sherlock was sitting at the table, and he glanced up from the notebook in which he was scrawling something in his spidery handwriting.  
  
“Chips?” he replied, looking eagerly at the bag.  
  
John grinned. “Yeah. A wildly unhealthy meal. It’s been a while and I thought you deserved a treat.” He put the bag on the table and turned to remove his jacket.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock frowned, putting down his pen and poking at the bag.  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why do I deserve a treat?” He extracted the containers.  
  
“Well… the flat’s not on fire, there are no new holes in the walls, Mrs Hudson didn’t pounce on me with a list of your latest transgressions…”  
  
“Very amusing, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as John went to the sink to wash his hands.  
  
“No, really. You haven’t had a case in almost a week and you’ve been surprisingly well-mannered about it.”  
  
“Oh. Well. This latest experiment has been rather intriguing.” He waved a graceful hand at the three beakers in front of him.  
  
“Do I want to know what’s in those?” John inquired, drying his hands on a tea towel and glancing over.  
  
“Probably not?”  
  
“I’ll take your word for it.”  
  
His flatmate frowned at his somewhat flat tone. “John? Is something wrong? Did something happen at the surgery?”  
  
John scrubbed his face with his hand, then ran it through his short hair. He took a deep breath. “Yeah… it did.”  
  
“Tell me about it.”  
  
“Get those off the table and get plates.”  
  
They settled down to eat. Sherlock first consumed most of his chips ( _Must you put so much vinegar on them? I like them that way._ ) before gently prodding.  
  
“So, are you going to tell me what happened, or shall I deduce it?” he inquired in his deep voice.  
  
John smiled sadly. “No, I’ll tell you. I had a new patient today. She strained her knee months ago, and it hasn’t been getting any better. It was so swollen I couldn’t even get the leg of her trousers up over it, so I had to have her take them down. She wasn’t very happy about it, but there really wasn’t a choice.”  
  
“She had something to hide,” Sherlock commented quietly.  
  
“She did,” John agreed with a heavy sigh. “Her legs were… covered in wounds.”  
  
“Did someone injure her?” he demanded with concern. He knew that John abhorred domestic violence; it always got him upset.  
  
“No. It was… self-inflicted.”  
  
Sherlock froze, his hand halfway to his mouth with the last of his chips in it. Not noticing his reaction, the doctor continued.  
  
“I’ve seen it before, but this was… God, Sherlock. It was horrible. There wasn’t a quarter inch of clear skin. It was just—layers and layers of scars and old cuts and new ones and Christ I can’t even imagine how much pain she’s inflicted on herself.”  
  
“What did you do?” Sherlock managed.  
  
“Nothing. I pretended I didn’t see it. Checked her knee; referred her to an orthopaedist. She got dressed.” He paused.  
  
“And?” Sherlock’s voice was low.  
  
“She thanked me. After she was dressed, she thanked me for respecting her privacy.”  
  
“Was that it?” The detective was frowning in puzzlement. He couldn’t quite read John’s reaction to the situation—other than that it was upsetting him—and it was making him nervous.  
  
The doctor gave a somewhat wry smile. “No, that was not it. After she thanked me, she asked me why I hadn’t said anything. What the hell was I going to say? She’d clearly been doing it for years. This was no teenager, Sherlock. She wasn’t doing it to get attention—the scars were only where she could easily hide them. She obviously didn’t want me to see them. I suspect that’s why her knee had gotten so bad—she was avoiding doctors. And I don’t blame her.”  
  
“What do you mean?” the other man asked quietly.  
  
“Most of them would probably trot out the whole ‘the medical community has a better insight on the topic of self-harm’ crap, but it would end up the same—recriminations, condescension, a psych consult. All of that crap.”  
  
“But you don’t see it that way.” Sherlock fought to keep his voice from trembling. “Why not?”  
  
The doctor gave a heartfelt sigh. “I suppose you could say that _I_ have better insight into it than most people, medical or otherwise.”  
  
“Why?” His voice was barely a whisper. “It was someone you knew,” he realised, answering his own question.  
  
The doctor nodded. “Yeah. There was a soldier I was treating in Afghanistan. He was cutting on his abdomen. At first, I thought he was trying to get out on a psych discharge, but he was actually making a huge effort to hide what he was doing. Not what you’d expect if he was just trying to get a discharge… or to get attention.”  
  
“How did you find out?”  
  
“Infection. Which was hardly surprising, considering the conditions we were in. He tried giving me a few stories at first, and then he finally admitted what was going on.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t tell anyone or send him away or anything. I just… I suggested he talk to someone, and I taught him how to sterilise his knife and the cuts better. I don’t know if that was the right thing to do. ‘Do no harm’ and all that. But he was so grateful. He admitted that he had been avoiding therapy because he knew, in his heart, that he wouldn’t stop—not yet.” He paused. “The woman I treated today told me that she’d been in therapy and all sorts of so-called ‘treatments,’ but she had no intention of stopping. She even said that her husband wasn’t pushing her to stop.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Yeah, that surprised me a bit, too, but she said he knew someone—used to know someone—a friend back in uni—who did the same thing. Same sort of way. Not for attention. He hid it. Brilliant guy, apparently, but when he got frustrated, he’d turn it on himself.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth fell open. “How… when? I mean, how long ago?”  
  
“I don’t know. She’s about your age. No idea how old her husband is. Why?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
John ran his hand down his face. “God, Sherlock. It’s just… I just don’t get it. I know that the impulse is real, and it’s undeniable. I don’t understand it, but I acknowledge that it’s a real thing, and it’s… like you using. You know it’s dangerous, but sometimes you really can’t help yourself any more than this woman can—or that soldier—or her husband’s friend. Any of them. I hate to think that there are so many unhappy people out there doing that to themselves.”  
  
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a bit.  
  
“You done?” John indicated the plates with his head.  
  
“What? Yes.” The detective pushed his plate away. He rose and went in search of his laptop.  
  
*  
  
He hadn’t bothered to switch on any lights. He had seized his laptop and retreated to his bedroom and he wanted—needed—craved—the dark.  
  
He collapsed onto his bed, the device cradled in his arms. He felt dizzy and his stomach felt like a giant fist was clenching it. He tried swallowing, but his mouth was too dry.  
  
Don’t you dare be sick, he told his transport sternly.  
  
Mind over matter.  
  
What was the matter?  
  
What did it matter?  
  
John’s words rattled around in his head—and he did not want them in there. Delete them, he told himself. Delete it all. Delete the words and delete the images and delete the urge that now careened around, hitting corners and bouncing off in odd, unexpected directions.  
  
 _Go away, bad thoughts_ , he told them.  
  
Thoughts of—  
  
a soldier  
  
a war zone  
  
a kind doctor  
  
a sterilised knife  
  
 _Go away_  
  
a husband   
  
a wife his age  
  
a friend at university  
  
No no _no_  
  
  
  
scalpels  
  
needles  
  
  
  
blades  
  
  
  
Sherlock whimpered and held his laptop tightly against his thin chest, completely unaware of the tears rolling down his face.  
  
*  
  
John stood outside the closed door, listening.  
  
What had happened?  
  
He raised his hand to knock.  
  
But what could he say? Could he ask him what was wrong? Offer advice? Comfort?  
  
He knew that this wasn’t a strop or a tantrum. Something he had said to his friend had upset him dreadfully—much more than even the upsetting topic of his story warranted. His guilt over even introducing the topic—bringing it into their home—was making his stomach clench and his head hurt. What had he done? What should he do now?  
  
He desperately wanted to offer some sort of solace.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock silenced himself; he became still. Taking a few hitching breaths, he reluctantly released his hold on his laptop with one hand and angrily scrubbed at his wet cheeks.  
  
He knew that John was just outside the door; was listening.  
  
He wanted desperately for the older man to knock. He wanted him to come in.  
  
He wanted to feel those strong arms around him, offering comfort.  
  
Offering solace.  
  
*  
  
John had finally gone to bed. Realising that Sherlock’s seclusion had to do with the story he had told him about the woman from the surgery, he wondered if leaving the younger man alone was the best idea. It was so difficult to tell with Sherlock. Sometimes when he was overwhelmed, he would actually physically push people away in his desperation to be on his own.   
  
But this time, something seemed different, and now, even when solitude was clearly what he wanted, the doctor wasn’t sure that it was the best thing for him.  
  
He had not slept well, and from his bedroom (he had left his door open) he had heard the door of Sherlock’s room open and then the door to the loo close some time after midnight. Thirty minutes later, he sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. The long silence was making him apprehensive. Was he ill?  
  
Just as his bare feet hit the floor, he paused and sat completely still, straining to hear. Had that been the bathroom door being opened?  
  
It must have been, as a second later, the distinct sound of the door to Sherlock’s bedroom closing reached his ears.  
  
He debated for a moment. Should he go down and check on him?  
  
*  
  
Sherlock huddled under his covers, curled into a ball and shivering.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock? You okay?”  
  
“Go away, John.”  
  
*  
  
In the morning, Sherlock had emerged from his room, dishevelled and subdued, and John had made a point of not looking directly at him; the last thing he needed just then was to be scrutinized by his doctor.  
  
“Do you want some breakfast?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the medical journal he held.  
  
To John’s great surprise, although he didn’t touch his eggs, he managed streaky bacon and toast and some tea.  
  
He would try to tempt him with one of his favourites for lunch.  
  
*  
  
“I said, you are doing the washing up.” John’s voice was calm, but firm. He had determined to return their home life to as “normal” as it ever got.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” the dark-haired man replied calmly. “Why should I?”  
  
“Because it’s about time you took on some of the responsibilities around here.”  
  
“I’m not the one getting all those dishes dirty,” he pointed out, eyeing the pan in which John had warmed the tinned cream of tomato soup suspiciously.  
  
“You are welcome to do some of the cooking, too, you know. Maybe then you’d eat once in a while.”  
  
Sherlock glared down at his empty soup bowl. “I eat,” he muttered.  
  
“Okay, yeah. Sorry. You have been lately—a bit. So why don’t you continue to make me happy by doing the washing up?”  
  
“You can’t make me.”  
  
“Would you mind repeating that?”  
  
“Yes, I would.” Sherlock rose from the table and began to walk down the hallway towards his bedroom.  
  
John drew himself up and took a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes! Get back here _right now_!”  
  
And John was astonished when it worked.  
  
*  
  
“See? That wasn’t that hard,” the doctor commented gleefully.  
  
Sherlock scowled as he wandered into the sitting room, drying his hands on a tea towel. John was still somewhat gobsmacked that he had gotten his flatmate to cooperate—after ordering him to return to the kitchen, the younger man had done so, walking with his head down like a sulky child.  
  
“Sink. Now.”  
  
Sherlock unbuttoned and flipped his cuffs up, sighed heavily, and began running hot water over the dirty dishes piled in the sink.  
  
“Think of it this way,” John had then tried to soothe him. “If you don’t do them, and I don’t do them, eventually things’ll pile up until you don’t have room for any experiments.”  
  
He scowled; he hated that John had a point. “Still can’t _make_ me,” he muttered under his breath, the sound of the running water obscuring his words.  
  
*  
  
“What’s this?” John asked, fingering the soft wool.  
  
“I believe it’s just a double treble stitch.”  
  
He gave his flatmate a questioning look that flew right over the man’s head. “Not the knitting, you idiot,” he chuckled. “I mean, what’s it doing here?”  
  
“Here” was his chair and “this” was the afghan that had appeared, neatly folded, on the back of it.  
  
“It gets drafty in here sometimes.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“You don’t like drafts. They bother your shoulder.”  
  
Ah. Okay. So Sherlock had… he had, hadn’t he? He had noticed that yes, John did not like drafts, and yes, they did bother his shoulder, and he had somehow conjured up a very nice and skilfully homemade afghan for him.  
  
“It’s crocheted, not knitted,” the taller man pointed out, “and it’s washable.”  
  
“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”  
  
John wasn’t sure what else to say, and Sherlock was clearly done with the subject.  
  
Crocheted. Okay.  
  
Thank God the latest deviation of Sherlock’s mood hadn’t lasted long. They seemed to be back on track once again.  
  



	13. Chapter 13

A Mrs Kimberly Parsons had phoned shortly after noon. Sherlock had left the answering of his mobile to John—not so much as a directive as by the fact that he was rather pointedly not answering it himself. The caller ID just showed another mobile number. The doctor shrugged and accepted the call.  
  
Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at him in alarm as his flatmate held the phone a few inches from his ear, wincing at the shrieks coming through the tiny speaker.  
  
The shrieks continued for a full minute before John could get a word in edgewise. Yes, she had reached the detective’s phone. No, he was not the detective. Yes, he could take a message. No, he could not guarantee that the detective would call back or take her case, but if she would describe—  
  
…  
  
Really? All of them?  
  
…  
  
How many? What sort were they?  
  
…  
  
They’re worth HOW MUCH?  
  
…  
  
…  
  
Yes, of course he would be discreet. Yes, thank you for the address. Yes, he could come that afternoon. Yes, that would be acceptable compensation for his services.  
  
Plus expenses.  
  
He rather energetically ended the call and positively beamed at his flatmate.  
  
“John, are you quite all right?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.  
  
“Oh, more than all right. Get dressed. You have a case.”  
  
“I do?”  
  
“Yes, you do,” he said firmly, pointing towards his bedroom. “Get dressed. Now.”  
  
“What’s so urgent?” Sherlock demanded as the smaller man hauled him bodily out of his chair and shoved him in the direction of his room.  
  
John indicated the amount of the fee the distraught caller had offered. The detective shrugged.  
  
John explained who the murder victims were.  
  
“Are you joking? I’m not leaving this flat for a bunch of dead—”  
  
John explained the net worth of each victim and the circumstances of their deaths.  
  
Sherlock was ready to walk out the door in three minutes flat.  
  
*  
  
“How can you stand it?” John demanded.  
  
“Stop mumbling, John. No, just shut up. I’m working.” The irritated detective shot the ex-army captain an annoyed look that flickered for the briefest of moments into one of bafflement. Then he firmly shook his head and turned back to the scene.  
  
“I’m getting out of here,” the doctor muttered to himself as he exited the small shed that had, until very recently, been used as a hen house.  
  
As soon as he was out, John lowered his arm from where he had had it pressed tightly against his nose and mouth. The light fabric of his jacket had done very little to filter out the absolutely foul ( _Oh, for God’s sake, John, please don’t start with the puns_ he told himself sternly) odour that had virtually annihilated them when they had entered the fetid building.  
  
He moved as far away as he could manage in the enclosed garden and took several deep breaths.  
  
He knew for a fact that getting the stench out of his clothes—and hair—would be a challenge, and probably (definitely) require an apology to poor Mrs Hudson. Prize-winning chickens or not, the smell of the slaughtered bodies of eight of them rotting in the already-vile chicken house as the afternoon temperature rose was—well, he would really have to come up with an alternative to the word “foul.”  
  
This was not at all what he had imagined it would be like.  
  
*  
  
During the cab ride, John had repeated to Sherlock what the distressed woman had described while Sherlock ran a few quick searches on his mobile.  
  
“I had no idea there were so many different types of chickens,” John admitted, glancing over at the small screen. “Can there really be chickens worth £300?”  
  
“A thing is only worth what someone else will pay for it,” Sherlock commented drily. “That programme you were watching the other day—people supposedly finding antiques worth a fortune in their attics—those items are only worth what the moderators claim if the owner can find a buyer.”  
  
“But aren’t they usually the sort of things that collectors _do_ want to buy? Antiques, or paintings by famous artists?”  
  
“Some of the most desirable—and valuable—collectibles have no _inherent_ value. Think about how much certain collectors will pay for an American baseball card, John. On one level, they are simply old pieces of cardboard with some printing on them. Other pieces of cardboard with printing on them from the same era—postcards, for example—are nearly worthless. Some of them are considered valuable because they feature players who have become famous. But others become valuable because they feature athletes who have faded into obscurity and are therefore rare. It’s not logical, or consistent. It is the collectors themselves who arbitrarily define what they consider valuable.  
  
“In the case of chickens, or any show animal, really, people have selected specific characteristics or even mutations of specific breeds and then bred them—inbred them—to such an extreme that they are barely recognizable as being related to their original breed—creating creatures that some people consider valuable simply because they have been created to be valuable, which seems rather circuitous, while simultaneously endangering the animals by over-breeding. But even the risk of that does not deter some people from persisting in the practice—ensuring the eventual end of their hobby by perpetuating it.”  
  
John blinked, trying to absorb all of this. “So these chickens—are you thinking another collector? Maybe someone wanted to eliminate the competition?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea,” he admitted.  
  
The cab pulled up in front of the house in question.  
  
*  
  
John looked around himself appreciatively as Sherlock energetically rang the bell. The upscale neighbourhood was truly lovely. The house at which they were presenting themselves was beautifully maintained. The cars parked along the pavement were a collection of Bentleys, Bugattis, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis, and Rolls-Royces—and one positively stunning red Aston Martin. John sighed.  
  
John heard a beeping, and the buttons of the external pad of the house’s security system flashed green. A middle-aged woman opened the door a crack. “Mr Holmes?” she inquired.  
  
“And my colleague, Dr Watson,” he nodded. She opened the door wider and beckoned them inside. A small vestibule opened into a pleasant and tastefully appointed lounge. She re-engaged the security system.  
  
“I’m Miss Taft, Mrs Parsons’s housekeeper,” she explained. “She extends her apologies. She had an appointment that she could not reschedule. She already explained the… situation to you?”  
  
John nodded.   
  
*  
  
The housekeeper had shown them through to the back of the house. She had stopped short at the kitchen door leading to the enclosed garden. “I’m not going back out there,” she stated flatly as she entered a code into the security pad there, disarming the door alarm. “I was sick once already.”  
  
Hardly surprising, John had agreed. He had almost done so himself, swallowing hard before slamming his arm across his face when Sherlock opened the shed’s door—after noting that an unlocked combination padlock was on the ground.  
  
A good ten minutes after his escape, he was feeling better—but was growing more and more worried about Sherlock by the minute. He had left the low door to the shed open, and could dimly see and hear the thin man as he performed his usual crime-scene callisthenics, including several flashes as he took photos. Finally, just as he had steeled himself to re-enter the scene of the butchery and see if Sherlock needed to be bodily hauled out, the detective himself emerged. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the afternoon light, glancing around himself until he spotted the doctor.  
  
“Please tell me you’re done in there,” the older man pleaded.  
  
“Obviously,” was the familiar reply, but instead of heading towards him or the house, Sherlock turned to the wire enclosure that was attached to the small building containing the massacre. He yanked a tape measure from his pocket and impatiently thrust it blindly behind himself. “Here,” he ordered, “hold this end.”  
  
John sighed and braced himself to move towards the shed.  
  
*  
  
Despite the circumstances, John could not help but be (as he always was) amazed by his mate’s keen eye, incredible memory, and ability to read an entire story from just a few words, as it were. He had grown quite a bit apprehensive when the detective had, having measured and photographed the cuts created in the wire fence by what were probably heavy-duty wire cutters of some sort, slipped his slender body through the opening.  
  
“You’re not going back in there,” he had exclaimed, grabbing the bottom edge of Sherlock’s suit jacket.  
  
“Of course I am,” was the somewhat baffled reply.  
  
“Is that necessary?” the doctor demanded, holding the jacket firmly.  
  
Sherlock scowled over his shoulder. “Let go,” he snarled. And then he caught a look of the older man’s expression and his own face softened. “I’ll be all right,” he added more softly, “and I’m nearly done. I know it’s vile.”  
  
John reluctantly released the fabric pinched between his fingers. “Hurry up,” he commanded. Then he retreated several feet, watching his mate’s every move while simultaneously seeking fresh air again.  
  
*  
  
After the slender man had wriggled through the opening cut in the wire enclosure, John had been somewhat horrified to observe as he first closely examined and then somehow squeezed himself through the opening at the top of the ramp that led from the muddy ground into the shed. The doctor was grateful when he emerged from the building by the regular door just a few seconds later.  
  
He had breathed a sigh of relief when the detective headed back towards the house; a second later he gave a sigh of exasperation instead as Sherlock headed not towards the door but began to examine the wall that enclosed the garden and the door that led to the street along the side of the house. His first move was to try the door in the wall; it was padlocked. He took a close look at the lock, latch, and hinges, and then the wall on either side of it. The top of the wall was just about at eye level to him, and he inspected it carefully.  
  
At that point John was not the least bit surprised when the entire rest of the wall—which enclosed the entire garden—received the same scrutiny.  
  
Finally— _finally_ —he was done with his examination and was knocking politely at the kitchen door. The housekeeper, who had been watching them through the window, sighed and let them through.  
  
“Sorry about the floors,” John offered, trying to scrape some of the muck off his shoes before entering. He noticed that there was a heavy mat near the door, cluttered with a myriad of muddy (and worse) wellies and riding boots.  
  
“Oh, it’s fine,” she remarked with a sigh. “I’m used to it. If it’s not that muck from those damned birds, it’s fresh from the stables—the both of them—in their boots. I’ve asked them to take them off before they walk through the house, but they forget half the time. They don’t care how often I have to mop.”  
  
“Both of them?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“Mrs Parsons and her daughter, Kendra.”  
  
“Explain,” the detective commanded sternly.  
  
“Explain _what_?” she wondered, glancing at John in some apprehension.  
  
“Mrs Parsons didn’t mention her daughter on the phone,” John explained.  
  
Miss Taft shook her head and tutted. “Thinks more about those damn birds than her daughter. Kendra’s fourteen. She’s usually away at school, but there was some trouble with one of the instructors and she’s been home ever since—past six months or so. She was supposed to have a tutor, but that… well. It’s a bit complicated.”  
  
“Complicated how?” John asked, suspecting the answer.  
  
“Kendra’s tutor is now Mrs Parsons’s boyfriend,” Miss Taft stated flatly. Her distaste for the situation was obvious.  
  
“Oh, my,” the doctor remarked. He glanced down at Sherlock, who during this exchange had laid flat out on the floor and was examining it carefully. Miss Taft looked at him somewhat askance, but John just shrugged.  
  
“How often do you clean them?” Sherlock demanded, peering up at her.  
  
“The floors? Depends. Why?”  
  
“When did you mop here last?”  
  
“Oh… this morning—soon as I got here. Around eight.”  
  
“Was there any more—or less—to clean than usual? Anything different?”  
  
She considered his words as he got to his feet, then shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t _think_ so, but it’s not like I examine any of it terribly closely. I just clean it up.”  
  
“Where is the mop?”  
  
She pointed and he seized the tool. “May I?” he asked while simultaneously pulling a plastic bag from his pocket and popping off the disposable mop head.  
  
“Be my guest,” she replied, watching him as he bagged the filthy item.  
  
John was examining the collection of boots by the door. There were several pairs in varying stages of filth, all the same size. “These belong to both the mother and the daughter?” John clarified.  
  
“Mm. They wear the same size, and they just drop them there or by the street door. I won’t touch them—that is beyond my job description.”  
  
“What about the chickens?” Sherlock interjected, glancing over and nodding in approval at John’s observation. _Photographs_ , he mouthed to the doctor, who obediently withdrew his mobile and began snapping shots of the pile of boots and surrounding floor.  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“Do they fall within your job description?”  
  
“I should say not!” she replied firmly, and John couldn’t help smiling. “Mrs Parsons has someone come once a week to muck out, but she does most of the daily things herself—food and water and whatnot.”  
  
“Most?”  
  
“Kendra is supposed to help, but more often than not she tends to ‘forget’ when it’s her turn.”  
  
“When does that happen?” He glanced in the doctor’s direction. “Photographs of the lounge floor and those boots by the street door, now,” he commanded him, pointing towards the front of the house and ignoring John’s sigh of exasperation. “How often are the birds tended to?” he continued.  
  
The housekeeper watched as the shorter man obediently took more photographs. “It’s supposed to be morning, noon, and at night.”  
  
“Whose turn was it this morning?”  
  
“Kendra’s—but she must have skipped it. Those birds had to have been dead long before their regular feed this morning to be in such a state by noon—and Mrs Parsons was the one to find the mess then.”  
  
“So as far as you know, the last time they were checked before noon today was last night? What time?” Sherlock inquired.  
  
“They get put to bed about sunset.”  
  
“Put to bed?” John asked in bewilderment over his shoulder, picturing a row of sleepy chickens in old-fashioned night caps, being read a story.  
  
“Into the hen house—they aren’t left out at night.”  
  
“And who did that last night?” Sherlock inquired.  
  
“I don’t know. I leave at five o’clock.”  
  
The detective frowned, clearly turning something over in his mind. “They’re kept in by that board?” he asked. John frowned. What board?  
  
“Yes. It slides across the inside of that little door—the one at the top of the ramp.”  
  
“Hmm. Thank you. You may tell Mrs Parsons that she can have the remains removed, but nothing else is to be disturbed.”  
  
“Oh, thank God. The neighbours have been threatening to call the police about the smell. Are you done, then?”  
  
“Almost done,” the thin man replied in a somewhat inappropriately cheery tone. “Just a bit more outdoors. Come along, John. We still have to see how hard it is to scale the wall from the street side and I need someone short to attempt it.”  
  
John decided that being righteously indignant about this last remark wasn’t worth the energy. “Thank you,” he offered as the housekeeper entered the code that de-alarmed the door—before he was grabbed by the hand and bodily pulled out of the house.  
  
*  
  
Finally, festering entrails and walls covered in a rather prickly sort of ivy were behind them and they headed home.   
  
“Please tell me that you didn’t cut yourself on anything in there,” John said in a rather strident tone. “I can’t even imagine what sort of injections you’d need.”  
  
“No, John,” he retorted. “Even I know that would be idiotic. I was extremely careful.”  
  
Sherlock, who was walking energetically down the pavement, glanced down at the shorter man, who was keeping up with him quite nicely. They were aiming for a main road to catch a cab. They had already agreed that they would pay the cleaning fee up front and then charge it back to the client.  
  
John _had_ specified expenses, after all.  
  
Baker Street at last. As Sherlock offered his card to the driver, John wondered if he could beat the long-legged man up the stairs and into the shower first.  
  
*  
  
They had prudently removed their shoes before taking one step into Mrs Hudson’s tidy home and had been extremely careful not to leave a trail of drying muck behind them. Still, John felt like the pong emanating from them was so thick it was almost visible, and he was desperate to bathe. Sherlock had just shrugged when John asked if he could take the first shower; his mind was still clearly on the case.  
  
John had grabbed a bin bag on his way through the kitchen and crammed all his clothing into it. Sherlock was paying for the cleaning, that was certain—well, the client was. Now he gratefully stepped into the steaming water; it was as hot as he could bear.  
  
A thought occurred to him as he used three times as much shampoo as he usually did, letting the lather stream down his face and back. He made a mental note to ask Sherlock about it.  
  
*  
  
“I think I scrubbed myself raw,” he commented as he dashed through the kitchen clad in nothing but a towel. “Get in there,” he indicated with a jerk of his head as he headed up the stairs to his bedroom.  
  
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.” Sherlock nodded curtly and strode towards the bathroom.  
  
*  
  
“Better?” he asked from his chair as Sherlock strolled into the kitchen wearing a crisp buttoned shirt and fresh trousers.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
John rose and stretched, feeling his back crack. “I could use a cuppa,” he commented. He went into the kitchen, where Sherlock was now standing at the table, removing the mop head they had retained from its bag. John coughed as he moved towards the sink. “Shit, Sherlock—did you bag up your clothes?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“It reeks in here. Did you put your clothes in a bin bag?”  
  
“Yes! They’re in the hall with yours.” He moved to the counter, where John had temporarily corralled his supplies, picked up a bottle, then ran his graceful fingers over a collection of smaller containers and selected one.  
  
“Then why does it… oh, Christ. Please tell me you didn’t.”  
  
“Didn’t what?”  
  
For an answer, the doctor yanked open the fridge door and nearly gagged. “You dickhead!” he shouted, slamming the door shut again.  
  
“What is it _now_?” he shot back, pausing in his action of combining some of the liquid from the bottle with some powder from the other container into a clean spray bottle.  
  
John dropped his head, grasping the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Sherlock,” he began slowly, “did you actually take one of those chickens away from the crime scene with you?”  
  
“Obviously, John,” the detective replied calmly, capping and shaking the spray bottle.  
  
“And did you actually put the most disgusting thing I have ever smelled into our fridge?”  
  
“It’s in a sealed bag,” Sherlock pointed out petulantly.  
  
“Why?” John gazed upward. “Why is God’s name does my apparently mad flatmate think that putting a rotting, mutilated chicken corpse in the same fridge as our dinner is somehow acceptable because it’s in a ‘sealed bag’?”  
  
“It’s evidence,” the apparently mad flatmate offered defensively, turning from his project to glare at the doctor. “I have to determine what was used in the mutilations.”  
  
“And you plan on doing that _here_ , in our _kitchen_?”  
  
“I… yes?” For the first time in the course of their conversation, Sherlock began sounding a bit unsure of himself.  
  
“Try that again,” John said quietly, smiling.  
  
Oh. John was smiling—in that special way that was never good. “Ah… no?” he offered tremulously.  
  
“Oh, you are a _genius_. Spot on. Yes, you are going to finish getting dressed, and you are going to triple-bag that thing, and you are going to take it to Bart’s so you can poke at it under a ventilated hood. Right?”  
  
Sherlock hung his head. He didn’t quite understand why John was objecting so strenuously to his plan, but he did realise that he had gotten the ex-army captain quite angry. “Yes, John,” he nodded.  
  
“And when you come home, you will bring fresh eggs, milk, and butter for us, because I’m not eating anything that comes out of that fridge until you clean it out—thoroughly.”  
  
Sherlock sighed, put down the spray bottle, and went in search of shoes.  
  
*  
  
John couldn’t help it. He could only remain at that level of fury for so long. He maintained his stern expression as he supervised the transfer of the remains of the bird (it wasn’t going to win any prizes now, was it?) into a series of bags, staring pointedly as his flatmate carefully sealed each one. “Good. Now, _out_ ,” he commanded, pointing towards the door. “And don’t forget the shopping!”  
  
He listened as Sherlock, bag concealed in his jacket (which is how he had gotten it to the flat in the first place and John considered a wise precaution—no telling how people would react to the sight of the viscera-covered lump of feathers), headed dejectedly down the steps and out the street door.  
  
As soon as he heard the street door’s distinct click, John Watson began to laugh until he could barely breathe. Who was madder—the man who puts mutilated animal corpses into their fridge or the man who, when faced with mutilated animal corpses in their fridge, does not immediately pack up his things and move the hell out?  
  
*  
  
“That was a nice choice,” John commented, finishing his lamb doner. The wrap had been stuffed to bursting with the roasted, shaved lamb and vegetables, and he couldn’t resist licking a bit of sauce off his thumb. “Thanks for picking something up.”  
  
When he had first opened the takeaway containers, he had offered Sherlock a taste of his, then mentally kicked himself as the thin man drew back involuntarily, his mouth clamped tight. Damn. Why hadn’t it occurred to him when he saw what Sherlock had chosen for himself for their late supper—just chicken in a wrap and not a vegetable in sight—and watched as he carefully picked the chunks of meat out of the flat bread and ate everything separately, tearing the bread into pieces—that his own dish must have actually been rather challenging for his friend to bring home.  
  
“So, how did the dissection go?” he inquired, to change the subject.  
  
“Oh… brilliantly, of course.”  
  
“Of course. Were you able to determine what was used?” John inquired.  
  
“I believe it was the same tool used to cut the wire fence—some sort of heavy-duty metal snips. They weren’t left behind; the perpetrator probably tossed them in some skip away from the house.”  
  
“Does that mean that we have to dig through all the skips in the vicinity and please tell me no because I sure as hell am not helping with that.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him in puzzlement. “No? Oh. Very well. I can do that myself. Mop head?”  
  
John grinned. While Sherlock had been off at Bart’s, the doctor hadn’t been able to help himself. “No sign of blood,” he reported.  
  
The detective hummed appreciatively, smiling a tiny bit at the doctor’s obvious enjoyment at using the luminol he had mixed. “Thank you, John,” he replied. He began to gather up the takeaway containers, gingerly using one of the flimsy serviettes to handle John’s.  
  
Then the thought that had crossed John’s mind during his shower surfaced again.  
  
“Sherlock,” John wondered, “how the hell do you do it?”  
  
“Do what?”   
  
“You were crawling around in the foulest-smelling muck I could ever even imagine, and it’s not the first time—and now you’re going to be diving into skips.”  
  
“Yes? And?” he demanded, scowling.  
  
“My friend, you get sick if I even _mention_ courgettes (Sherlock, completely unconsciously, shuddered). How the hell were you not affected by that—I don’t even have a strong-enough word for it—that _stench_? And it’s not the first time. I’ve seen experienced policemen sick at crimes scenes where you didn’t even blink an eye.”  
  
Sherlock gazed at him, an indescribable expression on his face. He took a deep breath. “John, I’m sorry that you’ve had to put up with so much. Living with me must be a night… hell.”  
  
John blinked. That was hardly the reaction he was expecting. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Sherlock. No. What I mean is… oh, never mind. Don’t worry. I’m just being silly. Tea?”  
  
The ex-army captain had stopped himself from pressing the issue when his mate’s expression had changed from impatient to what John could only describe as crestfallen.  
  
Sherlock had looked _sad_.  
  
*  
  
“We’re going back!” he shouted, thrusting John into his light coat (a different one than what he had been wearing the day before, of course—Sherlock had personally bundled everything to the cleaners that morning) and shoving him towards the door.  
  
“Back… where?” he managed as he was hustled down the stairs.  
  
“Chicken Lady’s. I need to talk to her and the daughter.”  
  
*   
  
Damn. That had been careless of him. He grabbed the roll of kitchen towels and pressed a few to his hand. It didn’t even really hurt—  
  
Oh. Now it did.  
  
He knew that later it would hurt a great deal more. The metal snips he had been using were heavy, and the wound that now graced the fleshy bit between the thumb and fingers of his left hand would undoubtedly bruise badly in addition to being cut.  
  
Playing the violin would be impossible until it healed.  
  
Damn.  
  
He sighed and pressed the rough sheet of kitchen roll a bit more tightly into the crease. He glanced down at it—no blood was visible. Was it perhaps not as bad as he thought? Was it just pinched? He moved the makeshift bandage—  
  
Oh. No. It most certainly was bleeding. The underside of the towel, which had been hidden by the folds he had pressed into it, was bright red.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Well, he sighed, at least he had proven that the fourteen-year-old girl in the household was most certainly the person who had slaughtered the rare and valuable chickens her mother was raising—what with her having a nearly identical injury.  
  
He raised his hand up a bit; it was beginning to throb.  
  
He wondered if the mother would want him to figure out some sort of motive for it. Not that it mattered to his deductions, but he imagined it had something to do with the decidedly petulant teenager resenting having to tend to her mother’s prize-winning but odorous birds.  
  
He rose and went in search of bandages.  
  
Or was it something else? Jealousy, perhaps? Or wanting attention?  
  
After all, the girl was fourteen, the mother was barely thirty-three, and the boyfriend—the mother’s boyfriend and the daughter’s ex-tutor—was twenty-two.  
  
Emotional entanglements. Boring.  
  
He began to rummage through the first-aid supplies with one hand for something useful.  
  
*  
  
“What’s that?” John asked.   
  
Sherlock glanced up from the notebook in which he was scribbling some equations. He had no idea where his flatmate had been—John had probably told him. Not that it mattered; he was back now, hanging up his jacket and tugging at the front of his shirt until it was tidy.  
  
“What’s what?” Sherlock attempted. “You should have ironed that shirt.”  
  
“Yes, Mother,” the doctor shot back, smiling. Did he think that would work? Ridiculous man. “There’s no distracting me,” he pointed out. “What did you do to yourself?” He gestured at his mate’s hand.  
  
“Nothing. It’s fine.”  
  
“I’m in a good mood, you wanker. Don’t ruin it by being an idiot. What did you do?” He approached the thin man where he sat in his chair and extended his hand, palm up.  
  
Sherlock pouted and reluctantly placed his own hand in it.  
  
“You did a nice job bandaging it,” the older man commented. He carefully pulled up the edge of the folded-up gauze pad being held tightly to the palm by dressing tape and peered underneath. He hissed. “That’s not very pretty. What happened?”  
  
“Metal snips.”  
  
“Chicken Lady’s case?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. He had anticipated that the disruption of the bandage would be more painful, but John’s touch was easy and light. “It was the daughter,” he added.  
  
“Did you clean it?”  
  
He nodded again. “And I put some of that… stuff on it.”  
  
“The antiseptic cream? Good job.” He gently replaced the tape.  
  
Sherlock was surprised that he hadn’t made more of a fuss and withdrew his hand from the doctor’s a bit hesitantly.  
  
John smacked him on the back of the head.  
  
“What was that for?” he demanded in outrage.  
  
“For being an idiot. I’m going to be checking that every day—no excuses. Last thing you need is blood poisoning.” He dropped into his chair and gazed eagerly at his mate. “Now, tell me about the Chicken Lady’s daughter, and then what say we get sushi for dinner? And you’re paying.”  
  
*  
  
“Oh, wasabi is a lovely thing,” John sighed, breathing deeply through his nose. “I think that’s the first time I’ve been able to do that since being in that awful shed.”  
  
Damn. Now what? At his statement, Sherlock’s ebullient mood over having solved the case of the slaughtered chickens evaporated. Over dinner, he had, in his usual rapid-fire fashion, described to the doctor what had occurred—the daughter had planned her massacre rather imaginatively. She had first put the chickens into their house in the usual fashion—but instead of feeding them, she had quietly throttled each one, then locked the shed door behind herself as if everything was normal. Then, as complete darkness fell across the garden, she donned a mac, wellies, and rubber gloves, and used the metal snips to break into the enclosure around the chicken house, trying to make it look like it had been done by an intruder. She cut her hand then, but she had some tissues in her pocket, so she had just jammed a wad of them into the glove and managed to at least temporarily staunch the bleeding. She had crept up the ramp and pushed the board blocking the top of it out of her way. She had crawled in and made quick work of the eight birds, using the sharp, heavy metal snips to create as much carnage as possible. When she was done, she exited the shed the same way she came in, as the main door was of course still padlocked from the outside, just as she had left it.  
  
She had then stripped off her mucky outerwear and, dashing quickly through the house to grab clean shoes, walked out the street door with the bloody boots, gloves, and wire cutters wrapped tightly in the inside-out mac and dumped them into a skip two streets over.  
  
“She thought enough ahead for all that—but what did she forget?” John wondered, slurping down the last of his miso soup.  
  
“Think it through, John,” Sherlock encouraged. “You were with me at the crime scene. What did we examine?”  
  
“Uh… chicken house. Fence. Floor… no. Garden walls… that’s it! There was no evidence of anyone having gone over the wall or through the garden door, and other than going through the house, which was highly unlikely unless they had the code to the security system, the wall was the only way an outsider could have gotten into the garden.”  
  
“Exactly. So, who had access?”  
  
“Mrs Parsons, Miss Taft—clearly it was neither of them. Kendra… and the tutor.”  
  
“And how do we know it wasn’t the tutor?”  
  
“He was… too big to fit through the little door?”  
  
“Excellent, John!” Sherlock beamed at him.  
  
And then their main course had been served, and John scooped up a generous amount of wasabi with his sushi, and with his off-hand comment about it, Sherlock’s good mood had suddenly disappeared, like a soap bubble.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he asked gently, reaching across the table and patting the back of his flatmate’s hand.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, staring down at the table.  
  
“Was it…” John considered what he had just said. “Oh, Sherlock. Was it what I said the other day—about that pong not bothering you when pretty much everything else does?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“It wasn’t an insult,” he explained, frowning. He really didn’t understand what was upsetting his friend. “It’s just a bit of a contradiction, that’s all. There’s nothing _wrong_ with it.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, still refusing to look up.  
  
“It’s just a bit ironic—a few weeks ago you had your head in the toilet for an hour because of that frozen veg mix—which you didn’t have to eat, you know—and then there you were, practically rolling around in stuff that—God, Sherlock— _I_ was nearly sick.” Sherlock pulled his hand out from under the doctor’s. John considered him a bit longer, and then it hit him. “Oh, shit, Sherlock. I don’t think you’re a _freak_.”  
  
“Don’t you?” he replied quietly. “Don’t you think that being able to examine a corpse teeming with maggots but not being able to handle carrots and broccoli and sweetcorn together is abnormal?”  
  
“It’s unusual,” John admitted, “but no, it’s not _abnormal_. There’s nothing _wrong_ with it,” he repeated firmly.  
  
“No?”  
  
“ _No_. What did I tell you when we first met? You are amazing. I meant it then and I mean it now. And okay, yes, that also means that you’re a bit different than everyone else—but it’s that difference that makes you so brilliant.”  
  
Sherlock frowned, clearly trying to follow John’s reasoning. “Isn’t that a bit circuitous?” he ventured.  
  
“So I’m no Aristotle. My point is that no, I do not think that you are a freak because you see—and experience—the world differently than most other people. I think that is what makes you amazing.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock still seemed sceptical.  
  
“And now, speaking of being amazing, will you please amaze me by finishing your dinner?”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I thought I’d take a walk,” he explained. “Do you want me to get you a cab?”  
  
John looked at him as closely as he could in the light from the lamppost. “You feeling all right?”  
  
“I’m fine, John. I just want to walk. By myself.” He added the codicil as John opened his mouth, correctly realising that the older man was about to offer to accompany him. “I won’t get into any trouble,” he continued, thwarting John’s next statement. He knew he was already on thin ice; he had been unable to shake the dark mood that had settled on him and had barely touched his food, and John noticed those sorts of things.  
  
“You’re just going to walk?” the older man replied, disbelief clear in his tone.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Just… please. I won’t—here.” He yanked his wallet from his pocket, pulled the notes from it, and thrust his hand out to John. “Take my cash.”  
  
“What? No… dammit, Sherlock.”  
  
“What? You clearly don’t trust me not to find a dealer—and I can assure you that they don’t take cards.” Grasping John’s hand, he forced him to take the stack of money.  
  
The older man sighed. “What do you expect me to say?”  
  
“I have no idea,” the detective murmured, shoving his wallet back into his pocket, turning on his heel, and striding rapidly away.  
  
*  
  
Sometimes Sherlock wished that he really was a high-functioning sociopath. Then maybe his chest wouldn’t feel so tight and his eyes wouldn’t be blurry and he wouldn’t feel—  
  
Maybe he shouldn’t have  
  
Unfamiliar  
  
Had it been A Bit Not Good?  
  
Very peculiar  
  
He had never had a problem with it before  
  
What was it?  
  
Why was it?  
  
Was it?  
  
Was this _guilt_?  
  
*  
  
Back and forth. Back and forth. John’s pacing matched the flip-flopping of his thoughts. Was he angry? Was he worried? Should he text him? Should he wait up? Should he go out and look for him? Should he just go to bed?  
  
And what? Lie stiffly in his bed, alert for the slightest sound to indicate that Sherlock was home? Stare at his mobile, willing a text to appear?  
  
He was angry. He was worried.  
  
So back and forth, back and forth—  
  
*  
  
It was late. Even the city streets were emptying.  
  
Walking. Walking. Walking.  
  
Further and further away—  
  
further and further away from John.  
  
*  
  
John found himself staring out the first-floor window onto the street below, as Sherlock so often did. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the glass. Prick. Dickhead. Did he think that John was an idiot? He must—or why else would he have tried the “bait and switch” of offering the contents of his wallet to the doctor when John knew perfectly well that he had cash secreted in a hidden pocket of his coat?  
  
John was not an idiot.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock found himself staring up at the first-floor window of a decrepit building; if he had been interested he could have deduced the purpose for which it had originally been built. He drummed his fingers impatiently against his leg through the pocket of his coat, feeling the slight crinkle of the notes secreted there. Why had he lied?  
  
John was not an idiot.  
  
*  
  
That was it. He couldn’t stay up any longer. The doctor trudged up to his room and collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep with his mobile still in his hand.  
  
*  
  
Oh, thank God. Baker Street at last. He stumbled rounding the last corner.  
  
He fumbled with his latch key as he let himself in as quietly as he could.  
  
He trudged up the seventeen steps to the first floor.  
  
There was a single lamp on in the sitting room; somehow the light seemed to reach only a few feet into the room before it was swallowed up by the darkness. The room seemed—oddly—colder than it had been outside.  
  
The wad of notes from his wallet that he had crushed into John’s hand was on the coffee table.  
  
*  
  
John rolled over in his sleep, his mobile slipping to the floor. The slight thud as it landed didn’t disturb him.  
  
*  
  
What was that noise? Sherlock jerked his head around. It had come from upstairs. He headed up as quietly as he could.  
  
The door to John’s bedroom was open and light from the bedside lamp spilled out onto the landing. He crept into the room. John had fallen asleep on top of his duvet, still wearing his jumper and jeans. He clearly hadn’t gone through his usual bedtime routine, which usually included turning the heat up, but the room was still warmer than the sitting room had been. The light from the lamp was diffused by a rather fussy shade, creating soft, undefined shadows throughout the room.  
  
Sherlock spotted John’s mobile where it had landed. He bent and retrieved it, placing it gently on the bedside table.  
  
It was so very warm and quiet and lovely—there in the room with John.   
  
*  
  
The next day, neither one of them said a word about any of it—but John would never get the image out of his mind—  
  
When he had woken up that morning, Sherlock was there, in his room—still wearing his coat—sitting on the floor, propped up against the foot of John’s bed, sound asleep.  
  
There was a tidy stack of notes on the bedside table next to his mobile.  
  



	14. Chapter 14

“What do you know about horses, John?”  
  
“They make terrible stew?” the doctor replied in bemusement.  
  
“Horse racing, I mean.”  
  
“Oh! I know how to lose a week’s wages.”  
  
“Excellent! Pack a bag. We’re going to Dartmoor.”  
  
“Are we?”  
  
“Well, yes, John. You don’t expect me to go by myself.”  
  
*  
  
No, he didn’t, John reflected a while later. It had gotten so that the detective simply assumed that the doctor would join him on his investigations. And honestly John was grateful for the case. Sherlock’s “walkabout” had unsettled both of them, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Now, presented with the intriguing case that had been making headlines, he had called into the surgery to inform them that he wouldn’t be available for a few days, threw some things in his suitcase, and brought it to the downstairs hall. Mrs Hudson was there, smiling at him.  
  
“Off on an adventure?” she teased the doctor as he slipped on his jacket.  
  
“Off to the races,” he quipped, smiling at her.  
  
“Oh, the favourite! I wondered when he’d get interested.”  
  
“I think he’s more interested in the dead trainer than the horse, but yeah.”  
  
Sherlock emerged from Mrs Hudson’s flat, wiping some crumbs from his mouth with one hand and flicking the thumb of his other hand rapidly across his mobile. John gave him a slightly bemused look.  
  
“I made ginger nuts,” she explained. “Are you going by train or hiring a car?”  
  
“Car. Faster. Less boring when I’m driving,” Sherlock murmured, eyes fixed on his mobile.  
  
John was a bit taken aback; he had never thought about Sherlock driving.  
  
“He means he gets ill on long trips—”  
  
“We’re off now,” Sherlock interrupted. “Back in a few days. Don’t touch the petri dishes on the counter.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she responded drily. “Tell me all about when you get back, John.”  
  
*  
  
John was pleasantly surprised to discover that Sherlock was an excellent driver. He himself had never been fond of it—he had only learned once posted in Afghanistan, and that had been a rather unsettling experience—learning to avoid antipersonnel mines was not usually part of one’s driving instruction.  
  
*  
  
He had caught up with what the media was saying about the case, reading pieces aloud and then absorbing the analysis as Sherlock confidently summarised his thoughts while he sped them southwest. It was rather nice to get out of London, John realised—at least for a few days. He had also managed to book them a room at an inn—it really was rather amazing what one could do while sitting in the passenger seat of a Range Rover, zipping through the countryside.  
  
Yes, he had arranged _one_ room for them. It seemed ludicrous to get separate ones; they were so used to one another at that point, it was pointless to incur the expense. Sherlock obviously didn’t care in the slightest; he had other priorities for their lodging.  
  
“ _Yes_ , it’s got Wi-Fi,” John sputtered, rolling his eyes. “Would I book you anywhere that didn’t? And breakfast is included.”  
  
“Oh, goodie.”  
  
“Shut up,” John chuckled.  
  
*  
  
DI Gregory stared in astonishment as the “consulting detective” (or whatever he was calling himself) and his “colleague” (or whatever they were calling themselves), both burst out laughing when he mentioned the riding crop.  
  
*  
  
“So, you like dogs?” John asked.  
  
“What? I… suppose. Not those yappy little things. Large dogs…”  
  
John looked thoughtfully at his mate, who was crouched down in front of precisely that. “Have you ever had one?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock, engrossed in what appeared to be rather intently cross-examining the dog, particularly by running his long fingers through its fur, rubbing its ears, and whispering to it, did not reply. “Nothing, was it? Clever dog,” he murmured.  
  
*  
  
“I am underwhelmed with the heating system in this room, John. Will you be all right?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” John replied in some bemusement. Truth was that he was chilly in the room—despite the Wi-Fi and other amenities, it was a rather creaky, old-fashioned inn—but he hadn’t wanted to let on.  
  
His mate was glaring at him and shaking his head. “No,” he murmured before suddenly plunging out into the hallway. John shook his head and began to hang up their coats.  
  
Sherlock was back in ten minutes, an extra blanket in his hands.  
  
*  
  
It was rather nice to share the room, John discovered. He enjoyed stretching out on his bed (under his extra blanket) and continuing to discuss the case (he was proud of himself to have noticed the tracks that doubled back, and Sherlock had been surprisingly generous with his praise) while Sherlock paced, talking through his theories.  
  
*  
  
Back home.  
  
Sherlock had been brilliant and the case was headline-worthy and John was not entirely sure but he thought that perhaps the detective was actually looking forward to his blog on it. He had, for the most part, behaved himself—he had gotten a bit obnoxious with the local inspector, particularly over the lighter he had discovered that the inspector’s team had missed, but John had managed to get a good, hard grip on one bony elbow and he was positive that the healthy squeeze he had given it had helped rein him in a bit.  
  
Life was good.  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“What could you possibly not understand?” John put Sherlock’s drink on the table in front of him.  
  
“I do understand that there is a social convention which requires us to provide a ritual for moving Stamford from being single to being married….”  
  
“And?”  
  
“That’s it. That is the origin of the custom, but he’s not a reluctant groom. Nor in need of inebriation in order to execute the action.”  
  
“That’s not the point.”  
  
“Then what _is_ the point?” Sherlock frowned, thoroughly puzzled.  
  
“The point is to give Mike a ‘last night’ of being a bachelor .” John took a good, long swig of his beer.  
  
“Do you mean that literally? Stamford is going to perform—?”  
  
“Sherlock, shut up and drink your drink.”  
  
“Oh, if it makes you happy…”  
  
*  
  
“John, are you all right?”  
  
“Of course. Are you?”  
  
The cab driver gave them a sharp look in the rear-view mirror. Sherlock looked pale—but he always looked like that. But John—even rather-more-drunk-than-he-had-planned John—knew what insipient going-to-be-sick-consulting-detective sounded like. Not _quite_ there yet. But it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest.  
  
“Get me home,” Sherlock mumbled, shutting his eyes. He was very confused. Why was being even the tiniest bit high not all right with John, but this was? Because John was smiling at him in that affectionate, care-taking sort of way that…  
  
 _Stop that._  
  
Because the last time he—John Watson, doctor and ex-army captain—had smiled at him like that—Sherlock’s stomach had done a flip-flop, and not at all in the horrid sort of way it was doing now, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Emotions-something. Something-feelings. Something along the lines of “I want John to smile at me like that a lot more often” and heading into “I would like that smile to perhaps be a lot closer to me than it is currently” and even just the shortest jaunt into “I would like a lot more than just smiling from John” territory—  
  
 _Really. Stop that._  
  
“Thanks!” John called out as he paid the cabbie while simultaneously shoving Sherlock out onto the pavement.  
  
*  
  
“You have the world’s weakest stomach. You do _know_ that, right?” John asked, gently holding Sherlock’s shoulders. _Poor guy,_ John thought.  
  
“Shut—oh—John—make it stop—”  
  
* A lovely nearly forty-five minutes was experienced by all—if “all” meant John, Sherlock, the toilet, and a brief visit from Mrs Hudson.  
  
It was fine. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he had a tetchy stomach. John was just grateful that he had gotten him to the toilet in time.  
  
 _Old news,_ he thought, as he gently pulled his lanky friend upright from the bowl. He was fully aware that he was a bit muzzy himself—somewhat tight, yes, but it just made him feel lovely and mellow and calm and perfectly willing to be getting his best friend a glass of water and helping him to rinse his mouth and then take a tentative few sips. It was fine to be stroking his face with a damp flannel. It was all fine.  
  
“All right now?” he inquired. Sherlock nodded. His colour was better—not that ghastly greenish-grey it had been when they had gotten out of the cab. “Time for bed, then?” He guided the taller man into his bedroom and, seating him on the bed, knelt and eased off the ludicrously expensive shoes. Sherlock, who had closed his eyes, opened them halfway, watching his flatmate blearily.  
  
“Stop,” he muttered. “I have a question.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why do people do it?”  
  
“Do what?” John sat back on his heels and peered up at him quizzically.  
  
“Why do they—the whole thing. Love. Partners. Marriage. If being paired off with someone for life is supposed to be what everyone wants, why do so many marriages end in divorce or even murder? It just doesn’t make sense. ‘I will love you forever or until someone better comes along or I possibly strangle you.’”  
  
John laughed and got to his feet. “I’ve never heard it put quite that way, but you’re right, and I don’t have an answer. Just human nature, I suppose. We want to be important to someone else—to be loved—and formalizing it is just a way of announcing that ‘I am loved so much by someone else that he or she is willing to commit to me forever, so I must be very special indeed.’”  
  
“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, not understanding in the slightest but willing to hand over that responsibility to John. John was so much better at those things (well, not the actual relationship part, but in understanding the desire for one). But now John was reaching for the buttons on his shirt. “Don’t!” he warned. There was a note of panic in his voice.  
  
John put up his hands in surrender. “Okay.”  
  
“I can get myself undressed.”  
  
“Sure?” Sherlock nodded. “All right. Get changed and get some sleep.” The doctor smiled affectionately and ran his hand through the tangled curls before he slipped out of the room.  
  
 _Silly git,_ he thought as he headed back into the loo. Oh, dear. A quick clean-up was in order; he would do a better job in the morning. Brushed his teeth. Headed up to his bedroom. Changed into comfortable pyjamas. He was tired but not overly so. He headed back down the stairs to check on his flatmate one more time.  
  
He hadn’t shut the door to Sherlock’s bedroom before, so he slipped back in quietly. Sherlock had left a lamp on—probably in case of sudden return visits to the toilet. He was lying on his side under the covers, facing away from the door.  
  
“Will Mrs Hudson be cross with me tomorrow?”  
  
“What?” John was startled by the sudden question. “No! She’s fine with us having a bit of fun, and you were very good about not making a mess. Not that she ever stays cross with you for long. She loves you too much.”  
  
“That’s different, right?”  
  
“What’s different? Are you feeling all right?” He sat on the bed and leaned over, trying to see the gaunt face.  
  
“Thirsty.”  
  
“Okay. Be right back.” John fetched a fresh glass of water. Sherlock was sitting up now, so he sat next to him and helped him have a few sips. “Better?” he inquired. A nod. “You’re not going to go to sleep now, are you?” A shake of the head this time. He sighed. “Do you want to talk a bit? I’m not that tired myself.”  
  
“Is the way Mrs Hudson loves me different from the way Stamford loves… whatever her name is?”  
  
“Yeah, of course it’s different,” John frowned. He took a drink of the water himself.  
  
“How? I mean why. No, I mean… if it’s different, why are both feelings called ‘love’?”  
  
“Good Lord, Sherlock. I’m perfectly happy to have a chat with you, but I can’t be expected to explain that right now, can I?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Why not?”  
  
John grinned. “You really don’t get some things, do you? It’s not like a chemical equation or figuring out if someone has a limp based on the wear on their shoes. Emotions are—well, they’re big, messy, complicated things. They’re not tangible in the same sense. You should have some more water.”   
  
“Emotions _are_ tangible, though—aren’t they? Chemicals in the brain? MRIs can reveal emotional responses to things.”  
  
“Yes, but if you want to get into all that, I suggest we do it tomorrow when we’ve had some sleep.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
John chuckled. Sherlock was sometimes so much like a giant four-year-old it was really quite adorable. Then he sobered up. “Because there’s aspects of it that are really a bit serious and I’d rather not go into comparing the chemistry of being in love to the chemistry of being addicted to cocaine right this moment.” He offered Sherlock the water glass again.  
  
“Oh,” he responded, shaking his head and putting his hand up, pushing the glass away. “I’m sorry I brought it up, then.” He sounded uncharacteristically contrite.  
  
John turned his head to see his face better. “It’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it—just not when it’s so late.”  
  
“How do people know?”  
  
John finished the water and put the glass on the bedside table. “How do people know what?”  
  
“How do people know when they’re in love?”  
  
“You just know.”  
  
“What does that even mean?” Sherlock sighed, exasperated.  
  
“Okay. Say you’re not feeling well—in a ‘maybe-going-to-be-sick’ sort of way.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Well, there’s not feeling well like that—and that can last a long time and be really awful—and then there’s that moment at which you know for sure that you are actually going to be sick right then, right?”  
  
“So falling in love is like being sick?” Sherlock chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement for it.”  
  
John giggled back. “All right. Maybe not the best comparison, but one that I thought you could appreciate.”  
  
“Have you ever been in love like that?” There was a silence. Sherlock didn’t want to see John’s face. He sensed that what he had just said had been A Bit Not Good. “I’m sorry I—” he started.  
  
“No, it’s—” John responded simultaneously. “You first,” he suggested.  
  
“I’m sorry I asked that. It’s none of my business,” the deep voice rumbled. Sherlock slid down onto the pillows.  
  
“No, it’s fine to ask. And the answer is no, I’ve never been in love like that.”  
  
“But if you were, you would just know?”  
  
“Yes. But maybe it’s time for you to get some sleep?”  
  
“Perhaps.” He certainly sounded sleepy.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and John thought that his mate had fallen asleep. He just sat there for a bit, listening to his deep breathing.  
  
“Are you going to Stamford’s wedding?”  
  
“Sherlock! Time for sleep, okay? We’ll talk about it in the morning—I promise.”  
  
“’kay.”  
  
Another moment of silence.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” John sighed.  
  
Silence.  
  
“Sherlock?” Nothing. He had _finally_ fallen asleep. John smiled affectionately down at him. Goodness, he was tired himself. He should head upstairs. Sherlock’s bed was really quite comfortable. He would head back up to his room in a few minutes. The pillows were very nice and smelled of Sherlock’s shampoo. His pillow didn’t. His pillow… upstairs…  
  
John slept.  
  
*  
  
“John?” The deep voice was sleepy and confused.  
  
“Sorry. Fell asleep down here. How are you feeling?” John reached out and gently pushed a stray lock of dark hair away.  
  
“Not too bad.”  
  
“Good. How about I make us a proper fry up, yeah?” John began to slide off the bed.  
  
“Are you going to Stamford’s wedding?”  
  
John stopped and sighed. “You really want to talk about this, don’t you? What’s got you so fussed about it?”  
  
“I saw your invitation.”  
  
“Yeah? It’s just like yours.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
John frowned and looked down. Sherlock looked somewhat unhappy. “What do you mean, it’s not the same?”  
  
“Yours says ‘and guest.’ Mine doesn’t.”  
  
John pursed his lips. He hadn’t even noticed that. “And that difference bothers you?” he asked unnecessarily, because it was obvious that it did bother him, or he wouldn’t have brought it up. And now that John was aware of it, it bothered him as well.  
  
“Does it mean that they thought that you would be able to find a date, but I wouldn’t?” God, Sherlock actually sounded upset. This was new.  
  
“Well, more that I would want to bring a date and you wouldn’t be interested in doing so,” the doctor replied carefully.  
  
They were quiet for a bit.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock finally supplied.  
  
“I’m sorry if that upsets you. I didn’t plan on actually _bringing_ a date, if that helps.”  
  
Sherlock sat up suddenly and glared at his flatmate. “Why not? I thought that was the sort of thing girlfriends liked—weddings.”  
  
“I guess some do, but I don’t have a girlfriend right now, so it’s a moot point.”  
  
“I’m sure you could find someone to go with you.”  
  
“I’m not going to just go out and ‘find’ someone to go to a wedding with me.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Why not? You ask women on dates. Is a wedding different? Are there rules about when it’s all right to go to a wedding with someone? When is it not? What about dinner? Is having coffee with someone different than eating takeaway with them? I don’t understand!” He sounded miserable and looked worse.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. Since when did this become so important to you?” Silence. “Were you even planning on going to the wedding? Doesn’t really seem to be your thing.”  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  
  
“No? All right. We don’t have to talk about it anymore. Do you want breakfast?”  
  
“If I wanted one, could I get one?”  
  
“Get one what?”  
  
“A date. For the wedding.”  
  
“What? Of course you could!” John stared at him, gobsmacked.  
  
“I’m not exactly an ideal partner, in case you hadn’t noticed, John,” he replied drily.  
  
“No… perhaps not, but I’m sure there’s lots of people who would fancy trying it out with you. Why? Do you want to go?”  
  
“No. I don’t think so.”  
  
“Then let’s forget about it.”  
  
John wandered into the kitchen and took out the breakfast things, thinking about the wedding. He had, of course, promptly returned the response card, marking it to indicate that he would be attending on his own. He had mentioned to Mike that they probably shouldn’t count on Sherlock attending or even replying, and Mike had shrugged—this was not news to him.  
  
Now, as he started some sausage and streaky bacon, he wondered. Sherlock had—albeit under protest—attended the stag do. He had at least looked at the gift list online; he had been using John’s laptop (his most recent password was “ohgoahead”) and must have been interrupted because he hadn’t deleted his browsing history. And now he was asking about what marriage meant and noting that he had not been invited to bring a date.  
  
Interesting.  
  
Confusing and unfathomable, as many of Sherlock’s behaviours were, but interesting nonetheless.  
  
*  
  
“You know, last night you came fairly close to being an actual human being. Be useful and make coffee.” John started on the eggs and bread, which he fried in the lovely bacon fat.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock frowned as he leaned against the counter, watching John cook for a few seconds before rummaging for the coffee press.  
  
“You were considering what sort of trap would be required to capture the Tooth Fairy,” John reminded him.  
  
“I was considering night-time intruders in general. The Tooth Fairy was just an example.”  
  
“I’m surprised you haven’t deleted the Tooth Fairy. Doesn’t seem terribly useful information.”  
  
“There was a kidnapping—”  
  
“Stop,” John warned him, flipping the bread and the eggs. “You know that I don’t like hearing about kidnapped children.”  
  
“You asked.”  
  
“I did. And now I regret it. This is almost ready. Get the table set.” Sherlock reached easily over John’s head for the plates.   
  
*  
  
“You’re being suspiciously well-behaved this morning,” John commented as Sherlock put his empty plate in the sink. “You ate a proper meal. You helped. You cleared. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Why does anything have to be wrong?”  
  
“Because you only help when you either want something or you feel guilty about something. Which is it?”  
  
“I don’t do that!” Sherlock’s tone was so clearly faking “outraged indignation” that John laughed out loud as he poured each of them a second cup of coffee.  
  
“You are a ridiculous man,” he grinned affectionately. “Have more coffee.”  
  
They sat in their facing chairs, John still smiling and Sherlock frowning. “Let’s see,” John continued, musing. “No scorch marks that weren’t there before. No mysterious new scratches in the furniture or holes in the walls.”  
  
Sherlock’s frown lessened a bit.  
  
“No body parts in the fridge.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth twitched a bit.  
  
“No irate calls from anyone—recently. That I know of. Which I always do because everyone always phones _me_ when you’ve been an idiot.”  
  
“See?” Sherlock demanded, finally giving in and chuckling. “I have been very well-behaved.”  
  
“So that means you want something.” John raised his eyebrows.  
  
“I…” Sherlock was frowning again, but this time it was in confusion.   
  
“You?” John prodded, taking a sip of his coffee.  
  
“I might want to—will you think I’m an idiot if I say this? —I think I want to go to Stamford’s wedding. John? JOHN!”  
  
A few minutes later, John was able to stop coughing on his coffee long enough to take a deep breath. “Went the wrong way,” he gasped.  
  
“I _must_ be awful. I tell you that I want to attend a social function and you nearly choke to death,” the pale man fussed.  
  
“It was just a bit unexpected,” the doctor explained, cautiously taking another sip.  
  
“I’m still not certain. There’ll be _people_.”  
  
“Well, yes, that’s the general idea,” John teased.  
  
“I find it hard to filter things out when there’s that many people.”  
  
“I know. You can’t turn off that great brain of yours. Although based on last night we now have proof that there is one way of shutting it off, which we can arrange for again—as long as you’re seated near the loo.”  
  
“Ha, ha,” Sherlock offered in a decidedly not-amused tone. “It’s too late, though, isn’t it? Something about head counts. It was _explained_ to me.”  
  
“Tell you what. I’ll phone Mike in a bit and see, all right?” Sherlock nodded a bit uncertainly. “Why don’t you play something? I’m in the mood to be a captive audience.”  
  
*  
  
“I also don’t understand the dancing.”  
  
“What?” John was taken completely by surprise. Sherlock had been playing a few lovely pieces while he folded the laundry. “What dancing?” He glanced surreptitiously around himself. One never knew when dealing with Sherlock. He could have managed to attract fairies or something into the flat and they were starting up some magical gavotte.  
  
“At weddings. It’s a formal event. The dancing starts out as a pathetic attempt at ballroom—usually a horrendously executed waltz—and then it evolves into that horrid—I don’t even know what to call it—everyone in their nice clothes, grinding against each other in the most _disgusting_ manner.”  
  
John couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing again. “Not everyone can dance as elegantly as you,” he tried pointing out.  
  
“So why do they try at all?”  
  
“It’s a party, Sherlock! People like to dance.”  
  
“Humph.”  
  
John slapped the last pair of socks on the pile. “So, if you go to the wedding, will you dance the slow dances?”  
  
“Depends.” Sherlock’s back was to him as he wiped down and put away his violin.  
  
“On what?”  
  
“Forget it. I probably won’t go, anyway,” he huffed. “I’m going out—collecting that venom I was promised.” He headed toward his bedroom to get dressed.  
  
“Venom. Right.”  
  
John looked after him thoughtfully.  
  
*  
  
“Really? Are you joking?”  
  
“No. You put ‘two’ on the response card. We just assumed you were bringing your girlfriend.”  
  
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m ‘between’ girlfriends at the moment,” John admitted with chagrin. “I _meant_ to write ‘one.’”  
  
“Well, better go out and find one. We’ve got you counted for two, and I’m not changing the count now. Melody will have my head.” Mike chuckled at his own joke.  
  
“Actually,” John mulled, “this sort of solves something.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I was calling because Sherlock has expressed interest in attending—Mike? Mike!”   
  
There was a strangled, choking sound. Eventually it petered out. “Sorry. Ahem. Did you say that Sherlock wants to come to the wedding?”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t get it myself, but he’s been on about it since last night.”  
  
“Last night—that was a bit out of character for him as well. Did you get home all right?”  
  
“Yeah. He didn’t lose it ‘til we got back to the flat. Even made it all the way to the toilet.”  
  
They both laughed a bit guiltily. John was fairly sure there was a pool.  
  
“Damn. I had the cab.”  
  
Yup.  
  
“So… anyway,” John continued. “Is it all right? To just count us as two?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll make sure Melody knows. See you soon!”  
  
They rang off.  
  
It didn’t hit John until five minutes later, when he was dropping Sherlock’s clean laundry onto his bed.  
  
 _Oh, shit. Did I just say I was bringing Sherlock Holmes to a wedding as my_ date?  
  
*  
  
John had his suit ready and had a new shirt to go with it. Well, Sherlock had gotten him the shirt. After their shopping excursion—which had resulted in quite a few changes to John’s wardrobe—Sherlock had fallen into the habit of occasionally adding to it. Random jackets and shirts and even trousers would appear in his wardrobe. At first, he had felt a bit odd about it, but nothing ever materialised that he didn’t like (he did notice a decided lack of new jumpers), so he decided to simply chalk it up to one of his flatmate’s quirks and enjoy the additions. So now he had a new shirt and was not surprised to discover a new tie and dress socks to match. He went to thank his flatmate and received a fussy wave of a hand. “I know that you have new shirts still, but the tie caught my eye, and then you had to have a shirt to go with it. Do you remember where you put my slides of lung tissue?”  
  
“Pretty funny coming from you,” John had commented, sliding the medium-blue silk through his fingers. “Considering that you don’t wear ties.”  
  
“I prefer not to wear them, but if I absolutely must... For the most part, I leave that up to Mycroft. I am fairly sure he was born wearing one.” He had smiled that shy smile he displayed when he had made a joke but wasn’t sure how it would be received.  
  
“And the waistcoat,” John giggled. “So, what are you wearing?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Sherlock wondered. “It’s not black tie.”  
  
“No. I was just curious.”  
  
“I hadn’t thought about it,” the detective admitted, shrugging.  
  
“It doesn’t matter. Other than a tie, pretty much anything in your wardrobe is going to look fantastic.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No what?” John smiled.  
  
“I’m not wearing a tie unless you insist.”  
  
“I insist.”  
  
“Very well. Did you order dumplings?”  
  
“Of course I ordered dumplings. And thank you.”  
  
*  
  
“Oh!”  
  
“Yes?” John peered over his newspaper hesitantly. He was seated at the kitchen table, keeping one eye on Sherlock as he worked on something.  
  
“There will be a great number of single women at the wedding, will there not?”  
  
“I don’t know about numbers, but yeah, I’m sure there’ll be some.”  
  
“So, if you wanted to—the social convention is that it’s acceptable to dance with them, I believe.” Sherlock was preparing slides, his gaze fixed attentively on what he was doing.  
  
“Yes… Sherlock, what are you getting at?” John put down the newspaper.  
  
“I mean, for you. If you wanted to dance with someone, or even more than one, there will be opportunities. Hand me that beaker.”  
  
John handed him a beaker with a small amount of a cloudy yellowish fluid in it. “I suppose. Wait. What do you mean about ‘even more than one’?” Sherlock dipped a pipette into the liquid and carefully added one drop to each of ten slides, on which there was—what was that? John wondered. “What are you doing?” he inquired cautiously.  
  
“I’m determining if there are measurable differences in the absorption of snake venom—specifically fasciculins—caused by differences in type and amount of melanin in the skin.”  
  
“So that liquid that I just handed to you…”  
  
“Is a highly-effective neurotoxin from a black mamba.”  
  
“Christ, Sherlock! I wish you would label these things!”  
  
*  
  
“Would you just help me with this?”   
  
Sherlock held his hand out and John handed him his new tie. “Of course,” he murmured, smiling a bit. John stood in front of him and he concentrated on tying the medium-blue silk neatly around the man’s neck.  
  
“I mean, I can tie a tie myself, but you always get it so perfect.”  
  
“It’s fine, John. I don’t mind. I was right about the colour. It looks well on you.”  
  
“Thanks.” John glanced at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. He did look pretty good, if he did say so himself. And then he looked at his flatmate.  
  
Damn.  
  
The man was gorgeous.  
  
He wore a black suit with a deep navy shirt and matching tie. Not _too_ different from what he usually wore, John realized, but somehow it looked just—more.  
  
“Did you do something different to your hair?” he asked. Sherlock gave him a look. So, yes, he had and no, he was not willing to admit it. Ridiculous man.  
  
“Are you ready?” John asked, glancing around himself. There was his wallet. He tucked it into his pocket.  
  
“Sure.” He got their coats. “You look very nice, John,” he commented, not looking at him.  
  
“Thanks…” John replied a bit hesitantly.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone with which to engage in sexual intercourse.”  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
“What? Isn’t that your goal?”  
  
“Umm… no?”  
  
“Then what is?”  
  
“To watch my friend get married, have some dinner, have some drinks, and possibly dance horribly so I’ll have something to regret tomorrow. Where’s your bag?”  
  
“Downstairs with yours.”  
  
They headed downstairs.   
  
“Oh, boys!” Mrs Hudson called out. “Let me see you.” She sighed in satisfaction. “You both look lovely. Have a wonderful time!”  
  
They both smiled at her, picked up their overnight bags, and John watched as Sherlock effortlessly hailed a cab. John had gotten himself a hotel room as soon as he had replied to the invitation strictly as an indulgence (at events of this sort, there was something very nice about saying your goodnights and then just popping into a lift instead of trying to find your coat and a cab and all that) and now he was grateful because it meant not having to haul a possibly drunk or fussy or overwhelmed flatmate back to Baker Street at the end of the night.  
  
*  
  
The service was lovely, of course. Mike looked so very happy.  
  
Sherlock looked so very bored.  
  
“Don’t you dare roll your eyes,” John hissed at him. He laid a warning hand on his arm.  
  
Too late.  
  
John didn’t see the people behind them smiling their gentle, affectionate, _knowing_ smiles.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, it would be nice if you ate something.”  
  
“I won’t like it.” The younger man pouted, poking suspiciously at something on his plate.  
  
“It’s perfectly acceptable—just some sole. At least have a taste.”  
  
Sherlock sighed as he speared a forkful of the fish and brought it to his mouth.  
  
“Now, how about some of the potatoes? They’ve just got some nice cream and butter and a touch of nutmeg—I asked. You don’t have to touch the greens.”   
  
Sherlock rather nervously took a taste of the potatoes, then looked surprised—they were not all that bad.  
  
John smiled proudly at him and patted his hand. “Good job,” he offered.  
  
He didn’t notice the smiles of the other guests at the table.  
  
*  
  
“I think you’ll like this, Sherlock,” John remarked.  
  
“What kind is it?”  
  
“Lemon sponge with buttercream icing. Here—” He held a forkful of the cake to Sherlock’s mouth. “I was afraid it was going to be one of those fruitcakes.”  
  
Sherlock shuddered. “I wouldn’t be in the room if it were,” he pointed out before obediently opening his mouth and accepting the cake.  
  
Neither of them heard the murmur behind them.  
  
*  
  
“Why don’t you go dance?” Sherlock suggested, taking a sip of a not-bad merlot as his piercing eyes darted around the crowded room, observing the other guests. “There’s a multitude of single women on the dance floor at the moment.”  
  
“No. It’s fine. I’m fine here.”  
  
He sat back and followed Sherlock’s eyes and wondered what he was observing.  
  
*  
  
“Stamford risks gaining a great deal of weight,” Sherlock commented, looking intently into his wine.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That couple over there has been married just sixteen months and the husband has put on two stone in that time.”  
  
John smiled. He knew his cue. “How do you know?” he asked. And then he sampled his single-malt and listened to his brilliant mate explain all about the significance of moved buttons and new earrings.  
  
*  
  
“Do you want to dance?” John inquired over his second glass of single-malt. Oh, an open bar was a lovely thing.  
  
“Why would I want to do that?” Sherlock frowned, sipping on his second glass of wine. He shot a look over his shoulder towards a particularly exuberant group nearby. He had flinched a few times as bursts of laughter drifted through the lively room.  
  
“You like to dance.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So? There’s plenty of people to ask.”  
  
“ _People_ , John.”  
  
“Oh. Right.”  
  
*  
  
“Oh, fuck it, Sherlock.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Come with me.” John grabbed his hand and pulled him with determination onto the dance floor. The taller man looked a bit panicked. “Look. There’re some lovely young women who would love to dance with you. And me.”  
  
John should have perhaps remembered to release Sherlock’s hand before they approached the young women. Yes, perhaps that would have been better. And if he had done that, perhaps the young women would have agreed to dance with them instead of giggling and whispering to one another before one of them smiled affectionately at both of them and said, “You two are just such an adorable couple.”  
  
And maybe it would have worked better if John hadn’t chosen that moment to be utterly, completely sick of saying, “We’re not a couple.” Why should he even bother? No one believed him, and it was unlikely that they would see any of those women again.  
  
And the icing on the cake was Sherlock, who had been fighting the incredible amount of data with which he was being barraged, finally becoming completely overwhelmed. He clutched John’s hand harder, pulled the shorter man right up against him, and putting his face close to John’s, whispered urgently in his ear, “John, get me outside—now.”  
  
And John was John and John liked to help his mate and he knew that Sherlock had been getting more and more anxious, especially as the music and voices got louder, so the doctor reached up with his free hand and cradled Sherlock’s temple as he murmured back, “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”  
  
The music and the voices were too loud for either of them to hear the collective “Aww,” cooed by the group of young women as John tugged on Sherlock’s hand and led him out of the room.  
  
*  
  
It was cool and dark and fresh outside, and John breathed in deeply. He didn’t mind a break from the noise and the heat, to be honest. There was a low stone wall around some flower beds, and the doctor had seated his friend on it. “Shut your eyes,” he instructed, and Sherlock had nodded and done so. He was standing in front of him, their legs intertwined, and he pulled the dark head of curls forward, so it was resting against him. “You all right now?” he asked after a few minutes.  
  
“Better. Yes. It was too much.”  
  
“I know. It’s all right. You did really well all evening. Do you want to call it a night?” He ran his fingers through the curls.  
  
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt.” The middle-aged man (a doctor from Bart’s; John recognised him but couldn’t recall his name) smiled sheepishly at them. “Just sneaking a cigarette while the wife’s not looking.”  
  
“You’re not interrupting anything—” John began.  
  
“No, no! It’s fine. I should quit them anyway.” He walked away.  
  
“What was that all about?” Sherlock asked, raising his head.  
  
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just dash back inside, say goodnight to Mike and Melody, and go up to the room. Or why don’t I say our goodbyes for both of us?” He had caught the look—Sherlock was not going to thread his way through the crowd with him. He was absolutely done for the night.  
  
“Yes. I’ll meet you in our room.”  
  
John watched as Sherlock strode away.  
  
*  
  
One bed? Oh, fuck. Of course, there was only one bed. John had completely forgotten that his original reservation had been just for himself and had been fine with a single bed.  
  
“What, John?”  
  
“Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s fine. Nice room.”  
  
“I got a bottle of the… whatever it was you were drinking. And one for me.”  
  
“How did you manage that?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I asked.”  
  
Of course. Sherlock Holmes had asked, and the bartender just handed over two bottles—which John knew was completely against house rules. But it was Sherlock and people would do anything for him, and the git had NO IDEA.  
  
“You have no idea, do you?” John laughed a bit bitterly.  
  
“About what?” Sherlock demanded sharply in return.  
  
“Never mind. Grab the glasses from the bathroom, yeah?”  
  
*  
  
“Why don’t you change?” John suggested as he carefully hung up his suit. It was nice to get dressed up, but he had to admit that it was even nicer to slip on sloppy, comfortable clothes afterward. Sherlock nodded at his suggestion and did the same, wiggling his toes as he freed them from their tight shoes and socks and then ducking into the bathroom to change. “And now I want you to tell me everything about the guests.” The doctor seated himself on one of the comfortable upholstered chairs and put his feet up on the other one.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock smiled, stretching out on the bed.  
  
“A lot of them work at Bart’s. Could come in handy.”  
  
“Ah. Well, that man who interrupted us outside was talking about his second wife…”  
  
*  
  
“Do you want more of your wine?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
*  
  
“I never really got the hang of a waltz.”  
  
“I can teach you. Come here.”  
  
*  
  
“It’s a bed, not a land mine, John.”  
  
“Right.” He still approached it warily.  
  
“What is the issue? We shared a bed a week ago,” Sherlock wondered. He was sprawled sideways across the mattress on his back. He tipped his head over the edge and glared at John upside-down.  
  
“That was only because I fell asleep while taking care of you.”  
  
“It’s just sleeping.”  
  
“Fine. Then maybe you’d like to move over so I actually have some of the bed to sleep on?”  
  
John watched as the tall man rolled languidly over and settled himself on one side of the bed. God, he was so graceful. John could tell that he was sleepy; his usually alert eyes were half shut. Such amazing eyes.  
  
“Is that enough room?” he rumbled, his voice gentle and low.  
  
*  
  
Fuck fuck fuck Sherlock  
  
Do you have no idea?  
  
Do you have no idea how beautiful you are?  
  
*  
  
 _“Have you ever been in love like that?”_   
  
_“No, I’ve never been in love like that.”_  
  
Tomorrow would be back to reality, but tonight John Watson would dream lovely dreams.  
  



End file.
